Poems (Chitwood)/To Mrs. I——— M——— M———
TO MRS. J——— M——— M———
When my pathway led through valleys, Where the meek-eyed daisies grew;When I rested on the mosses, Braiding violets of blue, Listening to the breeze that fingered Softly his delightful lyre;When I rambled through the wild-wood With a step that did not tire;When I sought the lark's low pillow In the dewy, grassy glen—Oh, that I had met thee, dear one; Oh, that I had met thee then.
Now, when all the world seems darker, Far less lovely, than of old;When I see the cloud, but can not Trace its under-tints of gold;Now, when confidence is broken, When I fear to love and trust;When I find the world's affection, Frail and perishing as dust;When the tempest blows about me Till my soul must almost bow,—Oh, for thy true heart to love me— Would that I could meet thee now.
In that world that shines above us, Where all tears are wiped away;In that world to which our spirits Soar on prayer-wings, day by day;By the tree of life, sweet sister, In green pastures, fair and bright,Where the pure and meek-eyed angels Rest upon their wings of white,— If we meet here never, never, 'Tis my earnest, faithful prayer,That, when this short life is over, I shall meet thee, meet thee there.