Poems (Chitwood)/To One Departed

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

TO ONE DEPARTED.

Over hill and over valley
 Hangs the curtain of the night;
All is touched with softer beauty
 In the moonbeam's quivering light.
And I sit in pensive sadness,
 Listening to the wild bird's song,
Or the music of the streamlet,
 As it softly ripples on.

Then sweet fancy brightly pictures
 Forms again I used to see,
And the fairest of that number,
 Angel friend, I find in thee.
Though thy face has lost the luster
 And the smile of careless mirth,
It doth wear a mystic brightness
 Which can never be of earth.

By thy side I seem to wander,
 As I often did of yore—
Every spot beloved and cherished,
 Thought doth visit then once more.
Oft I see the wreath of roses
 Bound around thy glossy hair,
And I hear thy voice of gladness
 Which did ever banish care.

In the silence of the forest,
 Where the fairest blossoms grew,
And the shaded, blue-eyed violet
 Bore all day its gems of dew;
There thou art to list the music
 Of the wind among the trees,
And thy cheek is brightly glowing
 In the fragrant wandering breeze.

But the lovely dream must vanish
 As the echo of a song—
On the earth no more thou dwellest,
 But among the "white robed throng."
And no more the wreath of roses,
 Which will fade e'er day is done,
Binds thy brow, but crown unfading,
 Like the brightness of the sun.

And no more we hear the music
 Of thy voice in joyous song:
But it swells in sweetest praises,
 'Mid a bright undying throng.
We have said farewell forever,
 On this earth of woe and pain;
Let us hope no more to sever,
 Far on high when met again.