Volume 23 — LUCILLE'S LETTER.

Out of the dreary distance and the dark I stretch forth praying palms—yet not to pray; Hands fold themselves for heaven, while mine, alas! Are sundered—held your way. Brief moments have been ours, yet bright as brief; Oh! how I live them over, one by one, Now that the endless days, bereft of you, Creep slowly, sadly on. Garnered in memory, those bewildering hours, A golden harvest of enchantment yield; Here, like a pale, reluctant Ruth, I glean A cold and barren field— Barren without a shelter: and the hedge Is made of thorns and brambles. If I fain Would lean beyond the barrier, do you see The wounding and the stain? Did God make us to mock us, on the earth? Why did he fuse our spirits by His word, Then set His awful Angel in our path, His Angel with the sword? Why, when I contrite kneel confessing all, And seek with tears the way to be forgiven— Why do your pleading eyes look sadly down Between my face and heaven? Why does my blood thrill at your fancied touch— Stop and leap up at your ideal caress? Ah, God! to feel that dear warm mouth on mine In lingering tenderness! To lie at perfect peace upon your heart, Your arms close folded round me firm and fast, My cheek to yours—oh, vision dear as vain! That would be home at last. Leon, you are my curse, my blessing too, My hell, my heaven, my storm that wrecks to save: Life daunts me, and the shadows lengthen out Beyond the grave.