Our Own.

Not all we name as friends, the soul receives as such, Nor ever those whose lip-born love weaves smoothest claim; Those only who, to ours, give genial spirit touch Can light that hidden shrine with friendship’s holy flame. ’Tis by this sign the friends God made for us are known; Dear ones! We count their names as precious gems which lie Within the hearts most sacred place—its very own— A circlet bright that’s bound by sympathy’s silken tie. There’s still another bond for which no word is found— A gift of His, so high the minds extremest reach Doth fail to find it name, or ontologic bound, Tho’ undefined—beyond the subtlest grasp of speech, This wondrous, unseen realm, to spirit sense, remains, And o’er its lines the soul, to kindred soul, conveys Joy’s glad, exultant flash, or sorrow’s woeful pains, Which, thro’ this gift divine, love’s tenderness allays. * * * * * ’Tis sweet in twilight’s hush, when noisy day has fled And evening’s azure glows with beauty’s single star— When roses, gemmed with dew, their richest fragrance shed, To feel the silence thrill with signals from afar Feel the thought-lines warmly pulsing with a message from our own— To know the call of dear ones, as we know the breath of flowers, And catch love’s fond impulsion, thro’ this mystic Psychephone, Trembling on the stillness of the dreamy, evening hours. Thro’ distance, o’er these subtile, sentient threads of mind, We feel, by finest sense, our answering heart-beats throb Till every fluttering, white-winged joy doth find Response, and every grief a sympathetic sob. O, blessed bond! It links us to the Life Divine! Thro’ this our prayers may reach the holy Fount of Love— The league of kinship which these spirit cords entwine, By fervent sway of soul, is felt in realms above.