M * * *
When I am dead, and all will soon forget
My words, and face, and ways --
I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet
Adown thy after days.
I die first, and you will see my grave;
But child! you must not cry;
For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave
O'er you from yonder sky.
You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears
Tho' sleeping in a tomb:
My rest would not be rest, if in your years
There floated clouds of gloom.
For -- from the first -- your soul was dear to mine,
And dearer it became,
Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine
Thy name -- my child! thy name.
You came to me in girlhood pure and fair,
And in your soul -- and face --
I saw a likeness to another there
In every trace and grace.
You came to me in girlhood -- and you brought
An image back to me;
No matter what -- or whose -- I often sought
Another's soul in thee.
Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became --
Gentle though I be --
Gentler than ever when I called thy name,
Gentlest to thee?
You came to me in girlhood; as your guide
I watched your spirit's ways;
We walked God's holy valleys side by side,
And so went on the days.
And so went on the years -- 'tis five and more;
Your soul is fairer now;
A light as of a sunset on a shore
Is falling on my brow --
Is falling, soon to fade; when I am dead
Think this, my child, of me:
I never said -- I never could have said --
Ungentle words to thee.
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