TOO LATE.

I looked upon a dead girl's face and heard

What seemed the voice of Love call unto me

Out of her heart; whereon the charactery

Of her lost dreams I read there word for word:—

How on her soul no soul had touched, or stirred

Her Life's sad depths to rippling melody,

Or made the imaged longing, there, to be

The realization of a hope deferred.

So in her life had Love behaved to her.

Between the lonely chapters of her years

And her young eyes making no golden blur

With god-bright face and hair; who led me to

Her side at last, and bade me, through my tears,

With Death's dumb face, too late, to see and know.