Shadows are we one and all;
A photo is a shadows play.
And written words like shadow fall;
The shadows of the mind are they.
Then shade this page whoe'er you be;
Tho' also here your mark must fade,
Except not immortality;
Where even light itself is shade.
Yet, all the same your hand display;
Yet, all the same your mind relieve,
If like the flowers we pass away;
Like them expressive let us live.
By James Windross
April 22, 1907
This was taken from a page hand-written by Grandpa (Charles) Prigmore.
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