"Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little
birds sang west,
_Toll slowly!_
And I said in under-breath, All our life is
mixed with death,
And who knoweth which is best?
* * * * *
"Oh, the little birds sang east, and the little
birds sang west,
_Toll slowly!_
And I 'paused' to think God's greatness
flowed around our incompleteness,--
Round our restlessness, His rest."
Dust to dust,--and the earth fell with a dull echo on the coffin. We
gathered round to take one look, and saw a double grave, too large for
her;--may it wait long and patiently for _him!_
And now a mound of earth marks the spot where sleeps Elizabeth Barrett
Browning. A white wreath to mark her woman's purity lies on her head;
the laurel wreath of the poet lies at her feet; and friendly hands
scatter white flowers over the grave of a week as symbols of the dead.
We feel as she wrote,--
"God keeps a niche
In heaven to hold our idols; and albeit
He brake them to our faces, and denied
That our close kisses should impair their white,
I know we shall behold them raised, complete,
The dust swept from their beauty, glorified,
New Memnons singing in the great God-light."
It is strange that Cavour and Mrs.
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