26 
CONSTANCE C. W. NADEN. 
Feb., 1890. 
The bud had blossomed into flower, 
Of golden fruits the prophecy. 
Of Autumn’s blessing with their dower, 
And richest harvests yet to be. 
But when our hopes had reached the height, 
So strongly based on victories won, 
And all the future seemed so bright, 
A sudden cloud eclipsed the sun ; 
And darkness fell where erst was light: 
The spirit left her house of clay ; 
The young soul took its early flight, 
To where beyond the night is day. 
And we in deepest grief lament 
The loss of one so young and true ; 
Her oil of life so quickly spent; 
So little done, so much to do. 
Too young she passed. 0 mystery 
Of life and death ! why is it so ? 
To ope that door we have no key : 
That such things are is all we know. 
We think of all that might have been, 
Of all, in sooth, we hoped would be ; 
And now no more wilt thou be seen 
To help our lives. Ah, woe is me ! 
0 gifted one, too early lost! 
Thy sunny grace, thy helpful power, 
Most truly felt when needed most, 
I lay upon thy grave a flower: 
A flower that watered with our tears, 
That by some strangely mystic spell, 
May whisper softly in thy ears, 
And tell the grief no words can tell. 
Dec. 28th , 1889. 
J. A. Langfobd. 
