Poems (Crandall)/Post Mortem

by Rosa Neil Crandall

Post Mortem.

A soul that had recently passed away,
Returned where his worn out body lay;
To the beautiful home with its softened light,
He came on a wild November night
  And crape hung black on the door.

Low sounds of passionate weeping came
From the room where lay his poor old frame,
Shrouded and sheeted. "Oh can it be
These signs of grief are for me-for me?"
  And the crape swung black on the door.

She sobbed, she moaned, the stricken wife,
Who had nagged that sensitive soul through life;
He longed to clasp her in his arms;
Had he dreamed she eared, what radiant charms
Would life have held, but all is o'er;
Earth's pains and joys are for him no more,
  For crape hangs black on the door.

And Elenor, with her stately ways,
Who had kissed him but once since her baby days,
Whom he had never known to weep till now,
Rained kisses warm upon cheek and brow;
  While crape hung black on the door.

Did they mourn him as husband, father and friend,
Or because he could earn no more money to spend?
Away with the thought, that could not be,
For there was his life insurance you see.
He had paid his dollars year by year
To provide for this wife and daughter dear,
  When crape should hang on the door.

Oh, pitifully small is the love we show
For our nearest and dearest. How can they know
The heart throbs true if the soul is stung
Day in and out by a peevish tongue,
  Until there is crape on the door.

The morrow came and the friends he knew
Dropped in by twos and by threes to view
The vacant house; as they came and went
  He could fancy it bore a card, For Rent.

Smith came with the rest to drop a tear,
They had not spoken for over a year;
"Oh John, 'twas my fault," he whispered low,
And the soul of John knew that this was so;
With outstretched hand, and with heart aglow,
Those words would have found him a week ago,
  But now there is crape on the door.

Of flowers they brought the fairest and best,
The lillies of peace nestled close to his breast;
And roses, sweet roses, were everywhere,
Their incense of love filled all the air,
  But crape hung black on the door.

Hark, the minister's voice, "Not many we find
So gentle and loving, so patient and kind."
No one to reproach, no word of complaint;
He had lived a man, they made him a saint,
  When crape hung black on the door.

The tenderness lavished on that cold clay
Would have cheered his heart for many a day;
Would have given him courage to fight for his life.
And perhaps not so soon, oh daughter and wife,
  Would crape have hung on the door.

And fain was the hungry soul to stay,
But they reverently passed with their box of clay;
Then the hearse through the cold November rain
  Moved on to the grave, and their cries were vain.

Oh, friends, to the dear ones while they live,
A bountiful store of affection give.
For the time will come, and who can say
How soon may come the woeful day,
  And crape hang black on your door.