Chapter 77 TOO LATE.

Delayed till she had ceased to know,

Delayed till in its vest of snow

Her loving bosom lay.

An hour behind the fleeting breath,

Later by just an hour than death, -

Oh, lagging yesterday!

Could she have guessed that it would be;

Could but a crier of the glee

Have climbed the distant hill;

Had not the bliss so slow a pace,