I remember drifting with them till I found myself again In the rush and roar and rattle of the engine and the train; And when from my surroundings something spoke of child and wife, It seemed the train was rumbling through a tunnel in my life. Then I remember something--like a sudden burst of light-- That don't exactly tell it, but I couldn't tell it right-- A something clinging to me with its arms around my neck-- A little girl, for instance--or an angel, I expect-- For she kissed me, cried and called me "her dear papa," and I felt My heart was pure virgin gold, and just about to melt-- And so it did--it melted in a mist of gleaming rain When she took my hand and whispered, "My mama's on the train." There's some things I can dwell on, and get off pretty well, But the balance of this story I know I couldn't tell; So I ain't going to try it, for to tell the reason why-- I'm so chicken-hearted lately I'd be certain 'most to cry. "TIRED OUT" "tired out!" Yet face and brow Do not look aweary now, And the eyelids lie like two Pure, white rose-leaves washed with dew. Was her life so hard a task?-- Strange that we forget to ask What the lips now dumb for aye Could have told us yesterday! "Tired out!" A faded scrawl Pinned upon the ragged shawl-- Nothing else to leave a clue Even of a friend or two, Who might come to fold the hands, Or smooth back the dripping strands Of her tresses, or to wet Them anew with fond regret. "Tired out!" We can but guess Of her little happiness-- Long ago, in some fair land, When a lover held her hand In the dream that frees us all, Soon or later, from its thrall-- Be it either false or true, We, at last, must tire, too. HARLIE Fold the little waxen hands Lightly. Let your warmest tears Speak regrets, but never fears,-- Heaven understands! Let the sad heart, o'er the tomb, Lift again and burst in bloom Fragrant with a prayer as sweet As the lily at your feet. Bend and kiss the folded eyes-- They are only feigning sleep While their truant glances peep Into Paradise. See, the face, though cold and white, Holds a hint of some delight E'en with Death, whose finger-tips Rest upon the frozen lips. When, within the years to come, Vanished echoes live once more-- Pattering footsteps on the floor, And the sounds of home,-- Let your arms in fancy fold Little Harlie as of old-- As of old and as he waits At the City's golden gates. SAY SOMETHING TO ME Say something to me! I've waited so long-- Waited and wondered in vain; Only a sentence would fall like a song Over this listening pain-- Over a silence that glowers and frowns,-- Even my pencil to-night Slips in the dews of my sorrow and wounds Each tender word that I write.