Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/Comfort—By a Coffin

by Sarah Piatt

COMFORT—BY A COFFIN.

 Ah, friend of mine,
The old enchanted story!—Oh,
 I cannot hear a word!
Tell some poor child who loved a bird,
And knows he holds it stained and still,
 "It flies—in Fairyland!
Its nest is in a palm-tree, on a hill;
 Go, catch it—if you will!"

 Ah, friend of mine,
The music (which ear hath not heard?)
 At best wails from the skies,
Somehow, into our funeral cries!
The flowers (eye hath not seen?) still fail
 To hide the coffin lid;
Against this face, so pitiless now and pale,
 Can the high heavens avail?

 Ah, friend of mine,
I think you mean—to mean it all!
 But then an angel's wing
Is a remote and subtle thing,
(If you could show me any such
 In air that I can breathe!)
And surely Death's cold hand has much, so much,
 About it we can touch!

 Ah, friend of mine,
Say nothing of the thorns—and then
 Say nothing of the snow.
God's will? It is—that thorns must grow,
Despite our bare and troubled feet,
 To crown Christ on the cross:
The snow keeps white watch on the unrisen wheat;
 And yet—the world is sweet.

 Ah, friend of mine,
I know, I know—all you can know!
 All you can say is—this:
"It is the last time you can kiss
This only one of all the dead,
 Knowing it is the last;
These are the last tears you can ever shed
 On this fair fallen head."