LIFE'S BURYING-GROUND.

By Rose Hawthorne Lathrop

My graveyard holds no once-loved human forms,

Grown hideous and forgotten, left alone,

But every agony my heart has known,—

The new-born trusts that died, the drift of storms.

I visit every day the shadowy grove;

I bury there my outraged tender thought;

I bring the insult for the love I sought,

And my contempt, where I had tried to love.