EAR hearts, whose love has been so sweet to know,That I am looking backward as I go,Am lingering while I haste, and in this rainOf tears of joy am mingling tears of pain;Do not adorn with costly shrub, or tree,Or flower, the little grave which shelters me.Let the wild wind-sown seeds grow up unharmed,And back and forth all summer, unalarmed,Let all the tiny, busy creatures creep;Let the sweet grass its last year's tangles keep;And when, remembering me, you come some dayAnd stand there, speak no praise, but only say,"How she loved us! 'T was that which made her dear!"Those are the words that I shall joy to hear.
LAST WORDS.
(Grave on Cheyenne Mountain.)
"And when, remembering me, you come some dayAnd stand there, speak no praise, but only say,'How she loved us! I was that which made her dear!'Those are the words that I shall joy to hear."
EAR hearts, whose love has been so sweet to know,That I am looking backward as I go,Am lingering while I haste, and in this rainOf tears of joy am mingling tears of pain;Do not adorn with costly shrub, or tree,Or flower, the little grave which shelters me.Let the wild wind-sown seeds grow up unharmed,And back and forth all summer, unalarmed,Let all the tiny, busy creatures creep;Let the sweet grass its last year's tangles keep;And when, remembering me, you come some dayAnd stand there, speak no praise, but only say,"How she loved us! 'T was that which made her dear!"Those are the words that I shall joy to hear.
