Debris | Page 8

gate.
And every day all the long Summer,?At noontime and evening late,?The little one's watching for papa--?Waiting to open the gate.
And now the bright Summer is ended,?And Autumn's gay mantle unrolled;?The maple leaves wooing the breezes?Are gorgeous in crimson and gold.
At noonday the face at the gateway?Is flushed with a feverish glow,?At night the bright head on the pillow?Is tossing in pain to and fro.
The father kneels down in his anguish,?And stifles the sobs with groan;?He knows that his idol is going--?Going out in the midnight alone.
He buries his face in the pillow,?Close, close, to the fast failing breath;?A little arm clasps his neck closely,?A voice growing husky in death
Says pleadingly, half in a whisper:?"Please, darling papa, don't cry;?I know Birdie's going to Heaven--?I heard doctor say he will die;
"But I'll ask God for one of the windows?The pretty star-eyes look out through,?And when you come up with the angels?I'll sure be the first to see you.
"And maybe I'll find my dear mamma;?And you'll come up, too, by-and-by,?And Birdie will watch for you, papa,?And open the gate of the sky."
The little hand falls from his shoulder?All nerveless, the blue eyes dilate,?A shuddering sigh, then the baby?Is waiting to open the gate.
WHITE HONEYSUCKLE.
White honeysuckle, "bond of love,"?Emblem born in Orient bowers,?Whence mythic Deities have wooed,?And told the soul's desire in flowers.?As sweet thy breath as Eden's balm,?As sweet and pure. Methinks that erst?Thy flower was of our earth a part,?Some angel hand the seed immersed?In fragrance of the lotus' heart,?And dropped it from the realm of calm.?And life of earth, and life above,?Thou bindest with they "bond of love."

ESTRANGEMENT.
Only a "something light as air,"?Which never words could tell,?Yet feel you that between your lives?A cloud has strangely fell;?Though never a change in look or tone,?A change your heart is grieving;?You sentient feel the friend you love?Has deemed you are deceiving.
A promise rashly given has bound?Your lips the truth to screen,?The nameless something gathers fast?As mist the hills between;?You wrap you in your cloak of pride,?The words are never spoken?That might have thrown the portal wide,?And friendship's tie is broken.

BRING FLOWERS.
Bring flowers, bring flowers, thou Queen of the Spring,
Sweet flowers to garland the earth,?Exotics to bloom in the mansions of wealth,
Wild flowers for the lowly hearth.?Bring flowers for the brave and strong-hearted,?Bring flowers for the merry and glad,?Bring flowers for the weak and despairing,?Bring flowers for the weary and sad.
Bring flowers, bring flowers, thou Queen of the Spring,
Sweet flowers, the dark hours to cheer.?Bring flowers for the little ones, flowers for the aged,
Bring flowers for the bridal and bier.?In this beautiful, sun-lighted Springtime,?Bring flowers their fragrance to shed,?To brighten the homes of the living,?To garnish the graves of the dead.
GOOD-BYE.
Good-bye! Good-bye!?Once pledged we fondly o'er and o'er?That nought should cloud our love's bright sky;?Once thought we that we could not stay?Apart and live. But oh! For us?Fate willed it not to linger thus.?To-day earth's wintry poles apart?Are further not that we in heart,?Nor colder than our sunless way.?Passion and pride can do no more,?And you and I can only say
Good-bye! Good-bye!
Good-bye! Good-bye!?So sad it seems the sound of tears,?So sad it seems life's parting sigh,?And yet, alas! It can but be.?Deserted ghostly wrecks of dreams?Once freighted with Hope's golden gleams,?Wrecks drifting on a sullen sea,?To mock the memory-haunted years,?Are all now left to you and me.
Good-bye! Good-bye!
IN THE TWILIGHT.
In the twilight gray and shadowy,?Deepening o'er the sunset's glow,?Softly through the mystic dimness?Flitting shadows come and go.
As my thoughts in listless wandering?With these phantom shadows fly,?Meseems they wear the forms of faces,?Faces loved in days gone by.
One by one I recognize them?As they silent gather near;?Some are loving, childish faces,?Knowing naught of grief or care.
Some are blooming, youthful faces,?Victory confident to win,?Some are from the contest shrinking,?Wearied with the strife and din.
Some are aged, wrinkled faces,?Time life's sands has nearly run;?Not a leaflet spared of Springtime,?Not a furrow left undone.
Other faces, sweet, sad faces,?Wafted o'er the Lethean sea,?Radiant smile in twilight shadows,?But they came not back to me.
In the twilight, dreamy twilight,?When the sultry day is gone,?Quietly o'er vale and hillside,?Tenderly as blush of dawn,
Come the timid evening breezes,?Sighing through the Summer leaves,?Transient as thought's pencil-paintings,?Sweet as weft that fancy weaves.
And as shadows in the twilight?Shapeful forms of faces wear,?So these dainty, light-winged zephyrs,?To my hearing, voices are.
Voices whose sad intonations?Seemingly, as flit they past,?Bring to memory hopes long shattered,?Blissful dreams too bright to last.
Voices, merry laughing voices,?Fondly loved in other years,?Mournfully are whispering to me?That their mirth was drowned in tears.
Telling of a fairer fortune?Far away 'neath tropic skies,?Telling of a broken circle,?Scattered friends and severed ties.
Other kindly, loving voices,?Winning in the long ago,?Tell me now, as then they told me,?"Thou canst live for weal or woe."
Are these weird and mystic voices?But creations of the brain??Only in illusive fancy?Must I hear their tones