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THE CONGRESS OF WOMEN.

Yet all seen through the golden haze of time,

That mists our eyes with tender memories.

To me a village street—above the road The May flushed maples meet in Spring’s caress. To you a low gray farmhouse, at whose door A dear old face smiles at you through its tears; For each of us that dear, familiar face,

We dare not think if we may see again.

Home is with them, and we are exiles here,

To build for others who come after us;

To whom this fruitful land shall be sweet home; That is our part, and no ignoble one.

Then let us build, that, in the coming years, When youth, untempted, strong in self-belief,

Puts our life-work to its untarnished test,

We may stand up and dare to meet

The searching inquest of those clear young eyes.