THE IRRIGATION AGE. 



215 



Her hair in scanty tresses 



Lies, silvered, on her brow ; 

 Her lips, where love once loitered, 



Are seldom smiling now. 

 But peace and faith and flow'ring hope 



Within her soul doth dwell, 

 And deep within her heart a voice 



Is whispering, "Lord, 'tis well!" 



