Before the beginning of years, there came to the making of man Grief
with her gift of tears, and Time with her glass that ran . . .

and, equally lovely:

From too much love of living, from hope and fear set free, We thank
with brief thanksgiving whatever gods may be That no life lives
forever; that dead men rise up never; That even the weariest river
winds somewhere safe to sea . . .

The verses brought her beautiful, stirring thoughts to weave into
verses of her own when she should find a quiet hour in the
summerhouse; or to incorporate into soul-soothing improvisings at
the piano.

Next morning, after her hour's stint at finger exercises, she
improvised and it went beautifully. She knew it was a success both
because of her exalted feelings and because Poppy meowed out in
discordant disapproval only once; the rest of the time Poppy purred
as appreciatively as for "The Maiden's Prayer." Dear Poppy! Missy
felt suddenly contrite for her defection from faithful Poppy. And
Poppy was getting old--Aunt Nettie said she'd already lived much
longer than most cats. She might die soon. Through a swift blur of
tears Missy looked out toward the summerhouse where, beneath the
ramblers, she decided Poppy should be buried. Poor Poppy! The tears
came so fast she couldn't wipe them away. She didn't dream that
Swinburne was primarily responsible for those tears.

Yet even her sadness held a strange, poignant element of bliss. It