I made another garden, yea, For my new love; I left the dead rose where it lay, And set the new above. Why did the summer not begin? Why did my heart not haste? My old love came and walked therein, And laid the garden waste. She entered with her weary smile, Just as of old; She looked around a little while, And shivered at the cold. Her passing touch was death to all, Her passing look a blight; She made the white rose-petals fall, And turned the red rose white. Her pale robe, clinging to the grass, Seemed like a snake That bit the grass and ground, alas! And a sad trail did make. [Illustration: Full-page Plate] She went up slowly to the gate; And there, just as of yore, She turned back at the last to wait, And say farewell once more. [Decoration] [Decoration] ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER. 1825-1864. _THE LOST CHORD._ Seated one day at the Organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys. I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then; But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen. It flooded the crimson twilight Like the close of an Angel's Psalm, And it lay on my fevered spirit With a touch of infinite calm. It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming strife; It seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant Life. It linked all perplexèd meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence As if it were loth to cease. I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, Which came from the soul of the Organ, And entered into mine. It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again,-- It may be that only in Heaven I shall hear that grand Amen. _SENT TO HEAVEN._ I had a Message to send her, To her whom my soul loved best; But I had my task to finish, And she was gone home to rest. To rest in the far bright heaven; Oh, so far away from here, It was vain to speak to my darling, For I knew she could not hear! I had a message to send her, So tender, and true, and sweet, I longed for an Angel to bear it, And lay it down at her feet. I placed it, one summer evening, On a Cloudlet's fleecy breast; But it faded in golden splendour, And died in the crimson west. I gave it the Lark next morning, And I watched it soar and soar; But its pinions grew faint and weary, And it fluttered to earth once more. To the heart of a Rose I told it; And the perfume, sweet and rare, Growing faint on the blue bright ether, Was lost in the balmy air. I laid it upon a Censer, And I saw the incense rise; But its clouds of rolling silver Could not reach the far blue skies.