Whene'er a child dies from a mother's arms,
A grave is dug within the mother's heart:
She watches it alone; no words of art
Can tell the story of her vigils there.
This garland fading even while 'tis fair,
It is a mother's memory of a grave,
When God hath taken her whom heaven gave.
Sorrow:
Farewell! I go to crown the dead;
Yet ye have crowned yourselves to-day,
For they whose hearts so faithful love
The lonely grave -- the very clay;
They crown themselves with richer gems
Than flash in royal diadems.
Hope
Thine eyes are dim:
A mist hath gathered there;
Around their rim
Float many clouds of care,
And there is sorrow every -- everywhere.
But there is God,
Every -- everywhere;
Beneath His rod
Kneel thou adown in prayer.
For grief is God's own kiss
Upon a soul.
Look up! the sun of bliss
Will shine where storm-clouds roll.
Yes, weeper, weep!
'Twill not be evermore;
I know the darkest deep
Hath e'en the brightest shore.
So tired! so tired!
A cry of half despair;
Look! at your side --
And see Who standeth there!
Your Father! Hush!
A heart beats in His breast;
Now rise and rush
Into His arms -- and rest.
Farewells
They are so sad to say: no poem tells
The agony of hearts that dwells
In lone and last farewells.
They are like deaths: they bring a wintry chill
To summer's roses, and to summer's rill;
And yet we breathe them still.
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