Poems (Chitwood)/Isabel
ISABEL.
There is a little, grassy grave In the churchyard corner, lone,And the simple name of Isabel Is graven on the stone.One white rose blossoms at the head In beauty, pure and sweet;One tuft of azure violets Close nestles at the feet.
And fancy conjures up the face, As busy fancy must;Each feature fair I try to trace, That long has changed to dust.Methinks I see the placid face, The lashes drooping low,The sunny curls, halt parted back From forehead white as snow.
The dimpled hands, in weak embrace Hold sweet flowers, all uncrushed;I see her in her beauty, yet I can not see her dust.And then I think the mother wept Through night's long gloomy hours,When thinking how her darling slept, Beneath the summer flowers.
Or in her dreams the tiny form Was sleeping on her breast;Ah, sad to wake and see the snow Deep drifted o'er her rest.And then I see another sight, A child with tearless eyes,Robed in a robe of spotless white, Away in Paradise.And then I say, "'Tis well, 'tis well, Thy rest is not alone."How blest is little Isabel Beneath the mossy stone.