"'Stilling the tumult of my brain, o'er-crowded
With fears and fancies that have banished sleep,
And losing pain and weariness forever
In heaven's unfathomed deep,

"'Till I lay hold upon my dear lost birth-right,
My oneness with all things that were and are,
Can feel the sea's pulse mine, my breath the wind's breath,
And trace my kinship to the evening star.

"'Then send me back to life's imperious calling,
The love that crushes and the cares that irk,
To strive, to fail, to strive again and conquer,
Till the night cometh when no man can work.'"

Aunt Jane had dropped her knitting; her eyes glowed, and she leaned
forward entranced, for the simple verses held the unfailing spells
that rhythm and rhyme have cast over the soul ever since the Muses
touched their golden harps on Parnassus, pouring "the dew of soft
persuasion on the lips of man" and "dispelling sorrow and grief from
the breast of every mortal."

"Why, child," she exclaimed, drawing a breath of deep delight, "that's
as pretty as any hymn. But it looks like anybody that can say things
that pretty oughtn't to have the troubles that common folks has."

Ah, if the power to put a sorrowful thought into beautiful words
brought with it exemption from sorrow, who would not covet the gift?

"But," continued Aunt Jane, "everybody has to have some trials. I
ricollect Parson Page preachin' a sermon about that very thing. He
said folks in trouble always thought their troubles was more than
anybody's; and they'd look around and see somebody that appeared to be
happy and they'd envy that person, when maybe that person was envyin'
them, for it's jest as the Bible says, 'There hath no trouble taken
you but is common to all men.'"

And while Aunt Jane spoke I saw this life of ours as a sacramental
feast. The table is long, and here sits a king and there a beggar. The
cups are many, and mine may be of clay and yours of gold, but the
wine, the bitter-sweet wine, is the same for all. One rapture throbs
in the heart of the Romany youth who plights his troth under the
forest tree, and the heart of the prince royal who kneels at the
cathedral altar. The tramp-wife burying her baby by the roadside might
clasp hands with the queen-mother who weeps at the door of the royal
mausoleum, for on the heights of joy or in the depths of pain all men
are brothers, all women sisters.

"And now, honey," said Aunt Jane, "I've