Poems (Chitwood)/Emma

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

EMMA.

They tell me the blossoms Are bright on her breast;That down by the river They laid her to rest,'Mid the birds, and the bees, And the scenes she loved best.

Perchance they speak truly, But I can not seeThe clay mound o'er her Who was dearest to me—I dare not go down To her grave on the lea.

I can not forget her; Why should I go there?She haunteth me ever; Nor fasting, nor prayer.Can drive her sweet face From my path everywhere.

I dare not go down To her low grave, to-night;She would rise up before me, In raiment of white:Her head on my shoulder Would rest like a blight.

I could but remember The sweet moments fled,I could but remember The vows I have said;Oh, I could not forget My wrong to the dead.

I wooed and I won her, Then bade her farewell;I tore her sweet love From my heart's inmost cell,But ne'er found another To love me so well.

I tried to forget her, But all was in vain,Like a star on my pathway She rose up again:—Why should I remember When memory is pain?

She died, and the light Went out from my way.She died, as a flower, At the last sight of day:Life's fruits are but ashes, For Memory will stay.