Poems (Chitwood)/To the Memory of a Friend

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

TO THE MEMORY OF A FRIEND.

It seems so strange that thou art dead!
 Thou of the young and bounding heart:
Yet I have stood beside thy bed,
 Where, tearing the long grass apart.
They laid thee down; and I have heard
 The cry of hearts half broken there—
The soul's deep hidden fountain stirred
 By the strong wings of earnest prayer.

Gone! gone! it hath a mournful sound!
 Thus friend by friend must pass away;
Love's wreath is like the roses bound,
 Whose brightness withers in a day;
And in some fair and cloudless time,
 A shadow falls; whose black'ning gloom
Is only lifted in that clime
 Where trees of life immortal bloom.

Oh! memories sweet I have of thee!
 Together we in childhood strayed,
And yonder is the old beech tree,
 Beneath whose branches we have played.
But ah! the frosts have fallen there,
 And every leaf is dry and brown,
But never, on thy brow so fair,
 Can life's rough winter settle down.

Sleep, dear one, sleep! the turf shall grow
 Freshly upon thy quiet breast;
And there the summer winds shall go,
 Singing their songs above thy rest.
But thou wilt know no change of scene,
 And whether all the world is bright,
The soft skies blue, the woodlands green,
 With May-time's fair and golden light.

Or tempests moving through the sky,
 Or snow drifts piled upon thy breast,
It matters not; no spell can lie
 Upon the brightness of thy rest.
Then let us shed no tears for thee,
 Our thoughts to thy pure life be given;
Thy barque swept o'er a quiet sea,
 And anchor'd by the gates of heaven.