At last.
155
Her children gather,—some are gone,
Asleep beneath a lettered stone;
The living, cold with grief and fear,
Stoop down her whispering speech to hear.
Asleep beneath a lettered stone;
The living, cold with grief and fear,
Stoop down her whispering speech to hear.
No child she calls, no husband needs.
At death's sharp touch the old wound bleeds:
"Call him!" she cried,—her first love's name
Leapt from her heart with life's last flame.
At death's sharp touch the old wound bleeds:
"Call him!" she cried,—her first love's name
Leapt from her heart with life's last flame.
