During her last summer she was in correspondence with her friend Mr. Garrison about the publication of a volume that should gather up into one sheaf these scattered occasional poems. She had this much on her mind and made every endeavor to collect the poems together: some of them had never been printed, and of others she possessed no copy. She stopped in Boston on her way to Smith College in the last days of last September, and spent an afternoon in her Beacon St. house looking for some of those lost poems. Her wish was fulfilled, and the posthumous volume, to which we gave the title “At Sunset,” lies beside me. Look down the page of contents and note how various are the names that figure in the list of personal poems, and what a wide range of character they show; beginning with Lincoln, Doctor Holmes, Washington Allston, Robert E. Lee, Whittier, Lucy Stone, Phillips Brooks, Robert Browning, Archbishop Williams, and ending with Michael Anagnos--this is a wide swath to cut, wide as her own sympathy. One poem of hers that has soothed many a wounded heart should be better known than I believe it to be. Though it has no dedication, it might well be dedicated to the men and women who have tried, and who to the world seem to have tried in vain. ENDEAVOR “What hast thou for thy scattered seed, O Sower of the plain? Where are the many gathered sheaves Thy hope should bring again?” “The only record of my work Lies in the buried grain.” “0 Conqueror of a thousand fields! In dinted armor dight, What growths of purple amaranth Shall crown thy brow of might?” “Only the blossom of my life Flung widely in the fight.” “What is the harvest of thy saints, O God! who dost abide? Where grow the garlands of thy chiefs In blood and sorrow dyed? What have thy servants for their pains?” “This only,--to have tried.” On the 26th of July, 1908, she wrote: “The thought came to me that if God only looked upon me, I should become radiant like a star.” This thought is embodied in the following quatrain. Wouldst thou on me but turn thy wondrous sight, My breast would be so flooded by thy light, The light whose language is immortal song, That I to all the ages should belong. Two lines of hers have always seemed to me to express above all others her life’s philosophy: In the house of labor best Can I build the house of rest!