She hath no scorn of common things,
  And, though she seem of other birth,
  Round us her heart intwines and clings,
  And patiently she folds her wings
  To tread the humble paths of earth.

  Blessing she is; God made her so,
  And deeds of week-day holiness
  Fall from her noiseless as the snow,
  Nor hath she ever chanced to know
  That aught were easier than to bless.

  She is most fair, and thereunto
  Her life doth rightly harmonize;
  Feeling or thought that was not true
  Ne’er made less beautiful the blue
  Unclouded heaven of her eyes.

  She is a woman; one in whom
  The spring-time of her childish years
  Hath never lost its fresh perfume,
  Though knowing well that life hath room
  For many blights and many tears.

  I love her with a love as still
  As a broad river’s peaceful might,
  Which, by high tower and lowly mill,
  Goes wandering at its own will,
  And yet doth ever flow aright.

  And, on its full, deep breast serene,
  Like quiet isles my duties lie;
  It flows around them and between,
  And makes them fresh, and fair, and green,
  Sweet homes wherein to live and die.

J.R.  LOWELL.

She Came and Went.

  As a twig trembles, which a bird
    Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent,
  So is my memory thrilled and stirred;—­
    I only know she came and went.

  As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,
    The blue dome’s measureless content,
  So my soul held that moment’s heaven;—­
    I only know she came and went.

  As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps
    The orchards full of bloom and scent,
  So clove her May my wintry sleeps;—­
    I only know she came and went.

  An angel stood and met my gaze,
    Through the low doorway of my tent;
  The tent is struck, the vision stays;—­
   I only know she came and went.

  Oh, when the room grows slowly dim,
    And life’s last oil is nearly spent,
  One gush of light these eyes will brim,
    Only to think she came and went.

J.R.  LOWELL.

Her Epitaph.

  The handful here, that once was Mary’s earth,
    Held, while it breathed, so beautiful a soul,
  That, when she died, all recognized her birth,
    And had their sorrow in serene control.

  “Not here! not here!” to every mourner’s heart
    The wintry wind seemed whispering round her bier;
  And when the tomb-door opened, with a start
    We heard it echoed from within,—­“Not here!”

  Shouldst thou, sad pilgrim, who mayst hither pass,
    Note in these flowers a delicater hue,
  Should spring come earlier to this hallowed grass,
    Or the bee later linger on the dew,—­