March 9

Tu la vedrai di sopra, in su la vetta Di questo monte, ridere e felice.

A T noon-tide came a voice, "Thou must away; Hast thou some look to give, some word to say, Or hear, of fond farewell?" I answered, "Nay,

My soul hath said its farewell long ago, How light, when summer comes, the loosened snow Slides from the hills! Yet tell me, where I go

Doth any wait for me?" Then like the clear Full drops of summer rain that seem to cheer The skies they fall from, soft within mine ear,

DORA GREEN WELL

And slow, as if to render through that sweet Delay a blest assurance more complete, "Yea," only "yea," was whispered me, and then A silence that was unto it, Amen.

THE WAYS OF DEATH