Poems (Procter)/Too Late

by Adelaide Anne Procter

For works with similar titles, see Too Late.

TOO LATE.

USH! speak low; tread softly;
 Draw the sheet aside;—
Yes, she does look peaceful;
 With that smile she died.

Yet stern want and sorrow
 Even now you trace
On the wan, worn features
 Of the still white face.

Restless, helpless, hopeless,
 Was her bitter part;—
Now—how still the Violets
 Lie upon her Heart!

She who toiled and labored
 For her daily bread;
See the velvet hangings
 Of this stately bed.

Yes, they did forgive her;
 Brought her home at last;
Strove to cover over
 Their relentless past.

Ah, they would have given
 Wealth, and home, and pride,
To see her just look happy
 Once before she died!

They strove hard to please her,
 But, when death is near,
All you know is deadened,
 Hope, and joy, and fear.

And besides, one sorrow
 Deeper still—one pain
Was beyond them: healing
 Came to-day—in vain!

If she had but lingered
 Just a few hours more;
Or had this letter reached her
 Just one day before!

I can almost pity
 Even him to-day;
Though he let this anguish
 Eat her heart away.

Yet she never blamed him;—
 One day you shall know
How this sorrow happened;
 It was long ago.

I have read the letter;
 Many a weary year,
For one word she hungered,—
 There are thousands here.

If she could but hear it,
 Could but understand;
See,—I put the letter
 In her cold white hand.

Even these words, so longed for,
 Do not stir her rest;
Well, I should not murmur,
 For God judges best.

She needs no more pity,—
 But I mourn his fate,
When he hears his letter
 Came a day too late.