Poems (Chitwood)/With the Dead

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

WITH THE DEAD.

When the leaves were growing emerald
 O'er the cottage door,
And a crown of fragrant blossoms
 All the orchard wore;
When the lark went singing upward
 To the pale blue sky,
And the waters burst from bondage,
 With a soft, low cry,—
Buttercups and violets meekly
 Budded in the dell;
There was one I loved beside me—
 One I loved too well.

When October's sunburnt forehead,
 Shining with the frost,
Leant upon the grave of Summer,—
 Early, early lost,—
Came I 'neath the blighted branches
 O'er the cottage door;
Came I listening for the footsteps
 That could come no more.
"She will never more come to you;
 She is with the dead;
Pale young grasses grow above her."
 That was all they said.

Dead! so were the Spring-time flowers,
 So the Summer's bloom.
I sat down and saw the leaflets
 Frosted o'er her tomb;
I sat there with bitter weeping,
 Daring to complain:—
"None like her has ever loved me;
 None will love again;
Oh, to hear her gentle blessing,
 How my heart hath yearned!
I had thought that she would meet me
 First, when I returned."

Came there one and sat beside me
 That Autumnal day,
And he told me how she faded
 Like a rose away;
How the tired lids drooped for slumber;
 How her check grew thin;
How she pined to let the angel—
 Death's pale angel—in.
"Blessed seraph, free from sorrow,
 Rest thy weary head,
I will rise and look to heaven."
 That was all I said.