Martha M. Simpson Poems

Oh, mighty conjuror, you raise
   The ghost of my lost youth --
The happy, golden-tinted days
When earth her treasure-trove displays,
...

If in the summer of thy bright regard
   For one brief season these poor Rhymes shall live
I ask no more, nor think my fate too hard
   If other eyes but wintry looks should give;
...

They shine upon my table there,
   A constellation mimic sweet,
No stars in Heaven could shine more fair,
   Nor Earth has beauty more complete;
...

O steep and rugged Life, whose harsh ascent
   Slopes blindly upward through the bitter night!
   They say that on thy summit, high in light,
Sweet rest awaits the climber, travel-spent;
...