Poems (Chitwood)/Mementoes

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

MEMENTOES.

  A tiny tress of hair,
That, trembling, falls in curls of sunny hue,
  I see before me there,
While memory brings the owner's form to view.
  She was a pale-brow'd child,—
Like as a spring-bud, frosted ere its bloom,—
  With pure heart, undefiled.
Death bore the cherub from us to the tomb.

  A fragrant, faded wreath
Of paly flowers. Oh! they were given to me
  Fresh from the dewy heath,
By one I never more on earth shall see,
  For came a stealthy hand,
And bore the maiden, in her days of youth,
  Up to the better land,
Where all is peace, pure, perfect love and truth.

  A ring, with clasped hands
Carved on the gold. It was the gift of one.
  Who now, in distant lands,
Stands 'neath the brightness of a southern sun,
  Where the ambrosial breeze
Thrills in æolian music thro' the bowers.
  There, where the orange trees
Wave 'neath the blue sky sweetly-scented flowers,
  While, with a painter's eye,
He views each scene, I wonder if he yet
  Doth ever give a sigh
To one he vowed he never would forget.

  A locket next I ope,
And thro' my tears an image dear I see.
  Oh! every star of hope,
Light of my life, lies in the grave with thee;
  Dear image, while I look,
The past comes dimly pictured to my view,
  In memory's solemn hook;
Then fades away like drops of morning dew.
  The world is dark,
Since thou art gone—yet I will sigh no more;
  Soon will life's barque
Waft me to thee, where parting shall be o'er.