The Dreamer

All day the white-haired mtiun sits Beulde the open (,,,r and kniUNo livinif thing her ilim eyc sees. As busy with old memories She dreams her drums or what has been And knits herold-time fancies in. She lliinks of those who long aeo Went out across the threshold low ; How many time ber listenlng ear Had thought familiar footstepa nrar And when she starled up to And A dead leaf rustling in the wind. But never at of those who He Htnealh the wide and tender slty, Witli folded hand on quiet breast All wrapped about wiih peace and rest, She thinks of them. F ir hcvir they tread The green earth wiih hjr. None are dead. Though years have fallen like the leaves About the graves where summer wcaves Hererass-frinjíed coverlet, to keep Safe hidden from us the ones asidep She sees them all Not grass nor mold Can hide the ones she loved ol old. She talks with them. When brown-wineed bee Makes merry in the locust tree. She thinks he comes and sits with her, Whose voice was love's interpreter. O, dreamerl yonng atfain to-day. What matter if your hair is gray? Sometimes she thinks that round her knee Ilerchildrcn play in happy Klee, And wlicn they tired and slet-py j;row, She sinffs some songs of long ao. And on her loving mother's breabt She rocks her little ones to rest. O, dreamerl knitting all the day Your dreams in witli your studies gray, Your is a happy, happy heart- A haunted world from ours apart; The years that turned your tresses gray Have given you back your youth to-day.