THE LAST LETTER. How often to this treasure-box, Tears in her eyes' soft fringes, She came with key and turned the locks, And on its brazen hinges Swung back the quaintly figured lid And raised a sandal cover, Disclosing, under trinkets hid, This message from her lover. Then lifting it as 't were a child, Time and again she pressed it; And smoothed the wrinkled paper, Lest any line should leave a doubt Or any word escape her. Still held the olden charm its place |