Emily Sparks
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here is my boy, my boyIn what far part of the world?The boy I loved best of all in the school?—I, the teacher, the old maid, the virgin heart,Who made them all my children.Did I know my boy aright,Thinking of him as a spirit aflame,Active, ever aspiring?Oh, boy, boy, for whom I prayed and prayedIn many a watchful hour at night,Do you remember the letter I wrote youOf the beautiful love of Christ?And whether you ever took it or not,My, boy, wherever you are,Work for your soul’s sake,That all the clay of you, all of the dross of you,May yield to the fire of you,Till the fire is nothing but light!…Nothing but light! Trainor, the Druggist Only the chemist can tell, and not always the chemist,What will result from compoundingFluids or solids.And who can tellHow men and women will interactOn each other, or what children will result?There were Benjamin Pantier and his wife,Good in themselves, but evil toward each other;He oxygen, she hydrogen,Their son, a devastating fire.I Trainor, the druggist, a miser of chemicals,Killed while making an experiment,Lived unwedded.
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