O shadows past the candle-gleam, so brief to pause in flight,
Are shadows that can come no more
Still moving unseen on the door
Of Yesternight?
O roses on the crumbling wall, so soon to droop and die,
Are any roses that are dead
Still fragrant where their petals bled
In Junes gone by?
O heart of mine, there is a face nor grief nor prayer can bring....
Think you in some far Shadow-land
One keeps my roses in his hand,
Remembering?
_Boston Transcript_ _Ruth Guthrie Harding_