And withered cheek, and wrinkled bony hand,
Tell of the soul to whom the lingering sand
Of weary life flows all too sluggishly,
Thy thought is ever fixed on the sky,
No treasure hast thou sought of gold or land,
They are as dross to one at whose command
The mysteries of heaven unfolded lie;
And yet thy life is sad, thou canst not know
The sweetest rapture of a wife's caress,
No children sport about those shrunken knees,
The matted locks that lie upon thy brow
No hand but icy death's shall ever press,
Nor shall thy cold heart e'er know earthly ease.
B. W. W.