Poems (Procter)/Too Late
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 traceOn 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 painWas 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 knowHow 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.