The leaves of memory seemed to make A mournful rustling in the dark

The twilight that surrounds the border-land of old romance.

It is curious to note the old sea-margins of human thought! Each subsiding century reveals some new mystery; we build where monsters used to hide themselves.

Though the mills of God grind slowly, yet they grind exceeding small; Though with patience He stands waiting, with exactness grinds He all.

It is autumn; not without But within me is the cold. Youth and spring are all about; It is I that have grown old.

This is the place. Stand still, my steed,- Let me review the scene, And summon from the shadowy past The forms that once have been.

For it is the fate of a woman Long to be patient and silent, to wait like a ghost that is speechless, Till some questioning voice dissolves the spell of its silence. Hence is the inner life of so many suffering women Sunless and silent and deep, like subterranean rivers Runnng through caverns of darkness.