Poems (Chitwood)/Lost

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

For works with similar titles, see Lost.

LOST.

Lost! lost! lost!
 The light of our household hearth;
A treasure most rare, a flowret most fair—
 The dearest to nus upon earth.
Lost! lost! lost!
 Grief's mantle is o'er each brow;
Our sweet bird hath flown, our music is gone;
 Our hearthstone is desolate now.

Lost! lost! lost!
 Can nothing our bright one restore?—
As ships on the sea, so storm-tossed are we;
 Our hearts can beat gladly no more.

"Gained! gained! gained!"
 There cometh a voice to our ears,
So lovely and sweet, for an angel 'tis meet—
 It cometh to banish our tears.
"Gained! gained! gained!
 In the beautiful mansions above—
A bird hath flown home, where storms can not come,
 To sing in the sunlight of love."

Gained! gained! gained!
 From the stormy and cold earth below,
To bloom in our bower, a fair, fragile flower,
 All free from each blast that shall blow.
Gained! gained! gained!
 Oh! shall we the lost one restore?
Shall we clothe her again, with earth's mantle of pain,
 On the cold earth to suffer once more?

No! no! no!
 Though joy hath gone out from each breast,
We ask not that she, once among us should be,
 With a mortal's heart throbbing unrest.
No! no! no!
 Keep her from sorrow and pain;
We have lost our bright dove, you have gained her above;
 Our loss, oh, we know 'tis her gain.