502
COMIN' THRO' THE RYE.
Will they find each other up above, I wonder, my lost love and my little lost angel? And since I shall go to them, but they will not return to me, I pant, I weary, I burn for the moment when death, "like a friend's voice from a distant field," shall call to me, and, taking my hand in his, lead me to the plains and fields that girdle round the shining city . . . where shall I not see my darlings stepping to meet me through the unfading, incorruptible splendour of "God's rye?"
THE END.
BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.
J. D. & Co.
