Her robes are simple, she wears no crown:
And yet she wears one, for widowed no more,
She is crowned with the love that has gone before,
And crowned with the love she has left behind
In the hidden depths of each mourner's mind.

Bow low your heads--lift your hearts on high -
The Queen in silence is driving by!



THE ENGLISHMAN



Born in the flesh, and bred in the bone,
Some of us harbour still
A New World pride: and we flaunt or hide
The Spirit of Bunker Hill.
We claim our place, as a separate race,
Or a self-created clan;
Till there comes a day when we like to say,
'We are kin of the Englishman.'

For under the front that seems so cold,
And the voice that is wont to storm,
We are certain to find, a big, broad mind
And a heart that is soft and warm.
And he carries his woes in a lordly way,
As only the great souls can: