Poems (Chitwood)/With the Dead
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.