The Visit

■ Che Bweetesi womftn ever fa!e Pervi deoied ■ houMhdd nimc" W'hittikk. 'Tis twilight of the day, And tivilight of the year : The leaves are turuing The green is growing gray. It is a little room, So neatly dresscd nnd still ; W'liicli fostered roses ñll Witli subtlest of perfume. A'zephyr lurkïng by, Betrays the curtained bed - Did ever mortal head Ou either pillow lie ? That pantomimic flre - How clear its cozy glow : It irestures ever so, Beliind the woven wire. But hush ! The Lady comes, As snftly as the hours ; 'Tis sweeter tlian her flowers - The melüdy slio liums. She dettly locks tlie blind, And draws the night-shade low ; While with her gown of snow . The kiften toys behind. Her hands are faulfloss fair, Her moveinents all of grace ; And lu-rs a queenly air For suoh a lovely place. She sits and liows her head - What do the shadows say ? - Her volume of the day Lies open and unread. The beauty of her face, Where livcs a dreaniy light, No suñering shall Idight, Nor wearing years erase. She sighs - now lifts above The worship of a tear ; And angels waiting near, Iiecord a wouuiied love.