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Poem September 19, 1914 Issue

[Written for the Sentinel]

Tryst

AMY RUTH WENZEL

"Can you tell me the way to joy?" she said;
"Love promised to meet me there."
But the patriarch shook his hoary head,
" 'Tis at sorrow He waits, my dear."
"Nay, nay! 'Twas at joy, Love promised to be;
Sweet were the tones of His voice.
Why, He is here, my brother!" said she,
"Waiting for us to rejoice."

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September 19, 1914

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