the memory of those who loved them here
below? What is this life without the poor accidents which made it our
own, and by which we identify ourselves? Ah me! I might like to be a
winged chorister, but still it seems to me I should hardly be quite happy
if I could not recall at will the Old House with the Long Entry, and the
White Chamber (where I wrote the first verses that made me known, with a
pencil, stans pede in uno, pretty, nearly), and the Little Parlor, and
the Study, and the old books in uniforms as varied as those of the
Ancient and Honorable Artillery Company used to be, if my memory serves
me right, and the front yard with the Star-of-Bethlehems growing,
flowerless, among the grass, and the dear faces to be seen no more there
or anywhere on this earthly place of farewells.

I have told my story. I do not know what special gifts have been granted
or denied me; but this I know, that I am like so many others of my
fellow-creatures, that when I smile, I feel as if they must; when I cry,
I think their eyes fill; and it always seems to me that when I am most
truly myself I come nearest to them and am surest of being listened to by
the brothers and sisters of the larger family into which I was born so
long ago. I have often feared they might be tired of me and what I tell
them. But then, perhaps, would come a letter from some quiet body in
some out-of-the-way place, which showed me that I had said something
which another had often felt but never said, or told the secret of
another's heart in unburdening my own. Such evidences that one is in the
highway of human experience and feeling lighten the footsteps
wonderfully. So it is that one is encouraged to go on writing as long as
the world has anything that interests him, for he never knows how many of
his fellow-beings he may please or profit, and in how many places his
name will be spoken as that of a friend.

In the mood suggested by my story I have ventured on the poem that
follows. Most people love this world more than they are willing to
confess, and it is hard to conceive ourselves weaned from it so as to
feel no emotion at the thought of its most sacred recollections, even
after a sojourn of years, as we should count the lapse of earthly
time,--in the realm where, sooner or later, all tears shall be wiped
away. I hope, therefore, the title of my lines will not frighten those
who are little accustomed to think of men and women as human beings in
any