But it cannot help you die.

There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train;
But one by one
We must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain.



THE GOSSIPS



A rose in my garden, the sweetest and fairest,
Was hanging her head through the long golden hours;
And early one morning I saw her tears falling,
And heard a low gossiping talk in the bowers.
The yellow Nasturtium, a spinster all faded,
Was telling a Lily what ailed the poor Rose:
"That wild roving Bee who was hanging about her,
Has jilted her squarely, as every one knows.

"I knew when he came, with his singing and sighing,
His airs and his speeches so fine and so sweet,
Just how it would end; but no one would believe me,
For all were quite ready to fall at his feet."
"Indeed, you are wrong," said the Lily-belle proudly,
"I cared nothing for him; he called on me once,
And would have come often, no doubt, if I'd asked him,