YOU have sent me from her tomb A poor withered flower to keep, Broken off in perfect bloom, Such as hers, who lies asleep -- Underneath the roses lies, Hidden from your mortal eyes, Never from your heart concealed, Always to your soul revealed. Oh, to think, as day and night Come and go, and go and come, How the smile which was its light Hath been darkened in your home! Oh, to think that those dear eyes, Copied from the summer skies, Could have veiled their heavenly blue From the sunshine, and from you! Oh, to have that tender mouth, With its loveliness complete, Shut up in its budding youth From all kisses, fond and sweet! Fairest blossom, red and rare, Could not with her lips compare; Yea, her mouth's young beauty shamed All the roses ever named. Why God hid her from your sight, Leaving anguish in her place, At the noonday sent the night, Night that almost hid his face, Not to us is fully shown, Not to mortals can be known, Though they strive, through tears and doubt, Still to guess his meaning out. Full of mystery 't is, and yet If you clasped still those charms, Mother, might you not forget Mothers who have empty arms? If you satisfied in her Every want and every need, Could you be a comforter To the hearts that moan and bleed? Take this solace for your woe: God's love never groweth dim; All of goodness that you know, All your loving comes from him! You say, "She has gone to death!" Very tenderly, God saith: "Better so; I make her mine, And my love exceedeth thine!" |