MYRTLE 
I ONLY CHANGE IN DYING. 
“Sempre lo stezzo”—the pure stream of feeling 
May show on its surface all pictures that pass— 
The light summer cloud through the azure air stealing, 
The wild flower that bends like a belle to her glass. 
“Sempre lo stezzo”—the wave may give back 
The bird’s sunny pinion that gleams and is gone, 
The star’s silver glory,—the breeze in its track,— 
The faint smile of twilight,—the gray mist of morn. 
“Sempre lo stezzo”—the cloud and the rose,— 
The sky’s changing beauty,—the wing’s glowing tint,— 
Break not for a moment the stream’s pure repose; 
They touch but the surface and leave not a print. 
“Sempre lo stezzo”—deep, deep in its bosom, 
Where the world’s fleeting pageants ne’er ruffle the tide, 
It hoards like a miser its own gem and blossom, 
And sings to itself all the love it would hide. 
F. S. 0. 
