To my Mother

HETTIE LANG SHUMAN

Stumbling, we see the future as a cup

Which she no longer stores with bread and wine, And where our human longing, yours and mine, Is all the incense we may offer up.

"To every man there come noble thoughts, that pass
across his heart like great white birds." - Mae-
terlinck

"Does the soul only flower on nights of storm?"

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III. The Melody

IV. Day Shuts its Troubled Eyes and Sleeps
Lost Spring

PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY (August 4, 1792-July 8, 1822)