A MEMORY.
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A MEMORY.
A year ago, in this dear month of May,I heard a voice borne o'er the waters say:"Weep, for her gentle soul has passed away."
The words had scarcely ceased, when on her faceI gazed, or so it seemed, but saw no traceOf aught save life, and loveliness, and grace.
In an unconscious attitude of restShe lay, with hands cross-folded on her breast—Looking, indeed, like one supremely blest.
There was no change, save only that a light,Left by death's kiss upon her brow so white,Glimmered about her face, and made it bright.
"What is this mystery of death?" I said:"Who are the living? Are not they the deadWho weep, in bonds of flesh, the spirit fled?"
An answer, but from whence I could not tell,Upon my ear like softest music fell:All is of God. He doeth, all things well!"
Then looking up towards the far blue skies,Her whom we mourn I saw, in angel guise,Smiling beside the gates of Paradise.
