October 23

Now that which decayeth and waxeth old is ready to vanish away.

THE tree of Faith its bare, dry boughs must shed, That nearer Heaven the living ones may climb;

The false must fail, though from our shores of time

The old lament be heard,—“Great Pan is dead!”

That wail is Error’s, from his high place hurled;

This sharp recoil is Evil undertrod;

Our time’s unrest, an angel sent of God,

Troubling with life the waters of the world.

J. G.

WHITTIER

MY FATHER'S HOUSE