The summer blooms are gone,
And bright birds darting;
Cold lies the earth forlorn;
And we are parting.
To meet again, my love, to meet again
In deathless greeting,
But ah! what wintry bitterness of pain
Ere that far meeting!



Distant Authors

"Aqui esta encerrada el alma licenciado Pedro Garcias."


Dear books! and each the living soul,
Our hearts aver, of men unseen,
Whose power to strengthen, charm, control,
Surmounts all earth's green miles between.

For us at least the artists show
Apart from fret of work-day jars:
We know them but as friends may know,
Or they are known beyond the stars.

Their mirth, their grief, their soul's desire,
When twilight murmuring of streams,
Or skies far touched by sunset fire,