Classic Poem

There is a touching beauty in the life
Of a dear daughter, who, while young and fair,
Turns calmly from the beckoning outside world,
Its glittering prospects and fair promises,
And casts her lot beside her mother's hearth,
Becomes a household help and oracle,
And makes a sunshine in her father's house,
To warm and cheer and comfort and sustain
Her honored parents in their waning years,
As did this gentle spirit,—dear Laurette.

She never listened to the stranger's plea,
Nor left the old love for the new, nor sought
A selfish happiness apart from those
Who needed her; but clung where she was born,
Growing more dear and precious year by year,
Until she came to be the household stay,
Her father's staff, her mother's sure right hand,
Trustworthy, diligent, discreet, and wise,
The friend and counsellor of all the rest,
A household saint and helper,—dear Laurette!

The world of strife and show, the heartless world,
Knew nothing of her. She was shrined apart;
She had no share in all its glare and noise;
She lived in shadow, as the violet
Grows up and blooms beneath the orchard tree,
As unassuming, delicate, and shy,
Yet blessing every passer unaware
With the pure beauty of its hidden life,
And when it fades, no other takes its place
Through all the summer's glory. Dear Laurette!

When last she kissed me, with a fond good-by,
She gave me roses. Even while they bloomed
This summer in my garden, she was dead.
Wherefore the thought of her brings back to me
The legend of the sweet Saint Dorothea
Who, ere she died, reached roses from the fields
Of Paradise, and gave them to the friends
She left behind. And so her memory
Shall be like her own roses evermore,
As fragrant and undying. Dear Laurette!