WAITING.

A YEAR has passed, yet I am lone, -

The promised joy will never come ;

With hopeless sorrow I am dumb, -

The song you hear is not my own ;

Yonder a bluebird flits and sings,

" I love to wait, - such joy it brings."

The brooklet ripples through the mead ;

There flowers, the brightest, bloom and fade ;

In them, in sunshine and in shade,

Alternate hopes and fears I read;

And still the bluebird sweetly sings,

"I love to wait, - such joy it brings."

Such joy thou bringest, sweet, sad gift,

The saddest, sweetest gift of those

Which through all human griefs and woes,

Like golden sands of mercy sift.

Sing on, sweet bird, I love thy song,

I wait, - the joy shall come erelong.

A. L. H.