Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/233

Rh

With thousand buds and beautifully blown flowers: It was a slip from that which grew beside The cottage, once her own, which ever drew Praise from each passer down the shadowy lane Where her home stood—the home where yet she thought To end her days in peace: that was the hope That made life pleasant, and it had been fed By the so ardent spirits of her boy, Who said that would bless the efforts made For his old mother.—Like a holiday Each Sunday came, for then her patient way She took to the white church of her own village, A long five miles; and many marvelled one So aged, so feeble, still should seek that church. They knew not how delicious the fresh air, How fair the green leaves and the fields, how glad