I was a poet nerved and strung
      Up to the singing pitch you know,
    And this since melody first was young
      Has evermore been the pitch of woe: 
    She was a wistful, winsome thing,
      Guileless as Eve before her fall,
    And as I drew her ’neath my wing—­
      Wilmur and Mary, that was all.

    Oh! how I loved her as she crept
      Near and nearer my heart of fire! 
    Oh! how she loved me as I swept
      The master strings of her spirit’s lyre! 
    Oh! with what brooding tenderness
      Our low words died in her father’s hall,
    In the meeting clasp, and parting press—­
      Wilmur and Mary, that was all!

    I was a blinded fool, and worse,
      She was whiter than driven snow,
    And so one morning the universe
      Lost forever its sapphire glow;
    Across the land, and across the sea,
      I felt a horrible shadow crawl,
    A spasm of hell shot over me,
      Wilmur and darkness, that was all!

    Leagues on leagues of solitude lie,
      Dun and dreary between us now,
    And in my heart is a terrible cry,
      With clamps of iron across my brow. 
    Never again the olden light—­
      Ever the sickly, dreadful pall;
    I am alone here in the night,
      Wilmur and misery, that is all!

    For the solemn haze that soon will shine,
      For the beckoning hand I soon shall see,
    For the fitful glare of the mortal sign
      That bringeth surcease of agony,
    For the dreary glaze of the dying brain,
      For the mystic voice that soon will call,
    For the end of all this passion and pain,
      Wilmur is waiting—­that is all.

The letter and poem finished, we talked long of our new friend, and the strange experiences brought into our quiet lives, and Clara said: 

“Oh! how long must all the good in the world of thought wait for the hand of love to open the avenues of work for willing doers!  Cannot strong men weep; and must not angels sorrow to realize the darkness and the errors where light should dawn, and in a morning of new life men and women stand as brothers and sisters in the grand work of helping each other to do all that lies on either hand!  Fields whiten for the harvest, but the reapers are not many.  These experiences come to us as teachers, and oh, Louis and Emily, let your hearts search to find these sorrowing ones!  May your hands never be withheld from the needed alms, and may you work in quiet love and patience through the years!  The mists will shroud the valley, and ere long, my dear ones, I shall leave you, for I cannot stay too long away from all that awaits me there.  If I had more strength I could stay longer—­but strength is what we need to hold the wings of our soul closely down, and when the physical chain grows weak, all that is waiting comes nearer.  Spiritual strength grows greater, and the waiting soul plumes its wings for flight.  It does not seem so far, and Louis, Emily, when my visible presence goes from you, your prayers will come to me.  I shall hear, perhaps I shall answer you also, for I shall be your guardian angel.  Then—­is it not beautiful to think of the long, long years, and no death for evermore?”