T h e B l i n d M e s s e n g e r

by Annabel Lee.

Illustration by Walter Meyner.

F I could feel the song of faith still singing

In my heart, once filled with melody

Of all you seemed when love was bringing

Me to the shrine of your adolatry.

Ah! If the years and gods were but content

To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand

And give instead, the meed which heaven meant

Should crown each woman’s life in every land.

If the dead past would but one hour deign

A lonely pilgrim travelling byways rough,

An hour when love and peace would ever reign—

That hour indeed were happiness enough.

“. . . . . . .

To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand.”