_by Annabel Lee._
_Illustration by Walter Meyner._
If 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.
[Illustration:
“. . . . . . .
_To hold fame’s trophy from my reaching hand._”]