Is that a voice that Sir Archibald hears, That is wafted sweetly to his listening ears And wakens old memories, old love, old fears? His drawn face blanches to an ashen white, Surely, he is baffled by his mortal sight Or the grotesque mockeries of the red fire-light! Surely, the purple velvet that curtains the bed, On whose pillow once rested a small, tousled head, Is stirring as if from the touch of the dead! With terror clutching, he starts from his chair, And stands like a statue, immovable there, His hot breath burning the stifling air. His tall form standing in its baffled power, As the big hall clock struck the midnight hour, There dropped before him a tiny flower. With pearly petals and a heart of gold, That seemed his very life to entrance and hold; A most beauteous, lovely flower, I'm told. Of slender petals there were but three: For tender love through eternity, Sweet Constance and deep sympathy. Stooping, he clutched it from the floor, And parted with it nevermore, Nor ceased its wondrous beauty to adore. Forsooth it truly from Heaven fell, For it brought new faith in his heart to dwell, Casting o'er his life a glorious spell. And as dawn strove hope to his heart to convey, He threw back the shutters to greet the day, And his fears and doubts were wafted away. ACORN SOUVENIR 1921 Organizations