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 see
The 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.