Silent Gift. Thou half-way up the long steep hill of Fame ; I at its foot, obscure, well-nigh unknown, Having no home, no wealth, to call my own, Seeing life’s toil stretch on through years the same— What could I give that now thou canst not claim ? The love of friends, loud praise’s stirring tone, Success in work—while I who stand alone Look up, but dare not speak for very shame. Yet to myself I whisper soft and low, Something I, too, could bring, his life to bless, A gift whose sweetness none shall ever know, Because none other may the shrine possess That holds the treasure—but a woman’s heart— A little thing ! Yet of all things apart. K. E. Webb .