The spinning-wheels, in attic hid,
  Tell me of busy fingers;
  And ’round the farm, long tenantless,
  An air of home still lingers.

  Of bygone days you speak to me,
  With all your ling’ring treasures;
  You summon musings of the past,
  And promise future pleasures.

  My Sleeping Beauty, I’m your Prince,
  At my kiss you will waken
  To fuller life than e’er you knew,
  Before you were forsaken.

  The great of earth will gather here,
  ’Twill be the home of Muses;
  Thy beauty and thy peacefulness
  A wondrous charm diffuses.

  I have a dream that years ahead,
  From out your humble portals
  Will issue music, art and song,
  To bless aspiring mortals.

  And mayhap when the eyes of men
  Turn toward you lovingly,
  Some gentle heart will breathe a prayer,
  Or sing a song for me.

IN MEMORIAM

  Out of the night and the silence,
  That held him in pitiless thrall,
  Came a gleam and a song of glory,
  And his spirit answered the call.

January 23, 1908