For many years a pair of tiny baby-shoes, half-worn, hung over a picture-frame in the poet's study, and told their sad tale of the little feet that had gone on before. Like Sydney Smith, Lowell learned to think that "children are horribly insecure,--that the life of a parent is the life of a gambler;" and he held the one who still remained to him with a trembling grasp for a long time. Happily, she was spared to him, and still adds interest and pleasure to his life. Mr. and Mrs. Lowell went to Europe in 1851, and spent a year in travel, partly for the benefit of Mrs. Lowell's health, which was always delicate. They spent the greater part of their time in Italy, although they made brief tours in France, Switzerland, and England. About a year after their return Mrs. Lowell died, and another little mound in Sweet Auburn was "Folded close under deepening snow." During the nine years of their married life all had been peaceful and beautiful, and now there seemed nothing left but-- "To the spirit its splendid conjectures, To the flesh its sweet despair," and many hopeless tears over-- "the thin-worn locket With its anguish of deathless hair." For a long time the heart of the poet would admit of no consolation. He replied to every attempt to soften his grief,-- "There's a narrow ridge in the graveyard, Would scarce stay a child in his race; But to me and my thought it is wider Than the star-sown vague of Space. "Your logic, my friend, is perfect, Your morals most drearily true; But since the earth clashed on _her_ coffin, I keep hearing that, and not you. "Console if you will, I can bear it; 'Tis a well-meant alms of breath; But not all the preaching since Adam, Has made Death other than Death. "It is pagan; but wait till you feel it,-- That jar of the earth, that dull shock, When the ploughshare of deeper passion Tears down to our primitive rock. "Communion in spirit! forgive me, But I, who am earthy and weak, Would give all my incomes from dream-land For a touch of her hand on my cheek. "That little shoe in the corner, So worn and wrinkled and brown, With its emptiness confutes you, And argues your wisdom down." On the same day that Mrs. Lowell died a child was born to Mr. Longfellow, who sent to his friend the beautiful poem, "The Two Angels." "'T was at thy door, O friend, and not at mine, The angel with the amaranthine wreath Pausing, descended, and with voice divine Whispered a word that had a sound like death."