Elizabeth J. Eames
From Griswold's Female Poets of America. (Sharp)
In her strange, shadowy coronet she weareth
The faded jewels of an earlier time;
An ancient sceptre in her hand she beareth--
The purple of her robe is past its prime.
Through her thin silvery locks still dimly shineth
The flower-wreath woven by pale Memory's fingers.
Her heart is withered--yet it strangely shineth
In its lone urn, a light that fitful lingers.
With her low, muffled voice of mystery,
She reads old legends from Time's mouldering pages;
She telleth the Present the recorded history
And change perpetual of bygone ages:
Her pilgrim feet still seek the haunted sod
Once ours, but now by naught but Memory's footsteps trod.
(Text from American Sonnets)