Box canon, looking inward, Ouray, Colorado.]

A helpless paralytic met my eyes,
  Whose hands might never grasp a friendly hand,
But hung distorted and of shrunken size,
  Insensible to muscular command;
His face an abject picture of despair;
I thought a fate like that was worst to bear.

With wasted form, emaciate and wan,
  A pale consumptive coughed with labored breath,
His sunken eyes and hectic flush upon
  His cheek, foretold a sure but lingering death;
I thought, whene’er I met his hollow stare,
A wasting death like that was worst to bear.

That day with fetters obdurate and fast,
  With chain of summer, winter, spring and fall,
Is bounden to the dim receding past;
  Time o’er my life has spread a somber pall,
With sightless eyes I grope and clutch the air,
My lot is now the hardest lot to bear.

They Cannot See the Wreaths We Place.

They cannot see the wreaths we place
  Upon the silent bier,
They cannot see the tear-stained face,
  Nor feel the scalding tear,
And now can flowers or graven stone,
For wrongs done them in life atone?

Better the flower that smooths the thorns
  On earthly pathway found,
Than that which uselessly adorns
  The bier or silent mound. 
And neither tear nor floral token
Retracts the hasty word, when spoken.

Then strew the flowers ere life has fled,
  While yet their eyes discern;
Why waste their fragrance on the dead
  Who no fond smile return? 
The heaving breast with sorrow aches,
Comfort the throbbing heart which breaks.

Mother.—­Alpha and Omega.

Mother!  Mother! 
  The startled cry of childish fright
  Rang through the silence of the night,
  As but the mother’s fond caress
  Could soothe its infantile distress;
  And the mother answered, with loving stroke
  Of her gentle hand, as she softly spoke: 
  “Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
  What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?”

Mother!  Mother! 
  Long years have passed, and the fevered brow
  Of a bearded man, she is stroking now,
  As through delirium and pain
  He cries as a little child, again. 
  And the mother answered, with loving stroke
  Of her careworn hand, as she softly spoke: 
  “Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
  What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?”

Mother!  Mother! 
  Still time rolls on, and an old man stands
  Trembling on life’s declining sands;
  As memory bridges the flood of years
  He cries as a child, with childish tears;
  And memory answers, with loving stroke
  Of a vanished hand, and an echo spoke: 
  “Hush, hush, my child, that troubled cry;
  What evil can harm thee, with mother nigh?”

Empty are the Mother’s Arms.