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THE AMBER ROSARY.
65
THE AMBER ROSARY.
Y birthday! I must keep it, as of old,And wear some token of a holiday;
For see the woods are gay with red and gold,
And Autumn sings her merriest roundelay.
I have no heart for dainty robes to-day,
And flowers do not suit me any more;
So, from the darkness where it hides away,
I take this relic of the days of yore,—
And flowers do not suit me any more;
So, from the darkness where it hides away,
I take this relic of the days of yore,—
Only an antique amber rosary,
Whose beads still hold the mellow light of Rome,
Clasped by a cross of blackest ebony,
Fashioned by loving fingers here at home.
Whose beads still hold the mellow light of Rome,
Clasped by a cross of blackest ebony,
Fashioned by loving fingers here at home.
And as I lift again the chain and cross,
The bright beads seem a wreath of golden days,
Ended too soon by black and bitter loss,
Made gloomier still by their contrasting rays.
The bright beads seem a wreath of golden days,
Ended too soon by black and bitter loss,
Made gloomier still by their contrasting rays.
