To
HOWARD LESLIE SMITH
LOVER OF LETTERS




SABINE HILLS

O_n Sabine hills when melt the snows_,
S_till level-full His river flows_;
E_ach April now His valley fills_
W_ith cyclamen and daffodils_;
A_nd summers wither with the rose_.

S_wift-waning moons the cycle close_:
B_irth,--toil,--mirth,--death; life onward goes_
T_hrough harvest heat or winter chills_
O_n Sabine hills_.

Y_et One breaks not His long repose_,
N_or hither comes when Zephyr blows_;
I_n vain the spring's first swallow trills_;
N_ever again that Presence thrills_;
O_ne charm no circling season knows_
O_n Sabine hills_.

GEORGE MEASON WHICHER