OUR upland journey wound its way Past hills that wore the green of May. The dogwood starred the shadowy copes; The light breeze rocked the pine-tree tops. Far off we saw the village spires And fluttering smoke of household fires. But here of voice or tool no sound Fell on the cloistered hush profound. Sudden I drew my bridle rein, Dim, shining out from moss and stain, Alone amid a fallow field, And half by brier and weed concealed, I saw a rough stone cross that bore One little dear home name; no more. Some heart had ached, some house had known The desolate hunger for its own, When, hollowed out this narrow grave, They laid, whom love had died to save But could not, one whose name had been To her own people "Josephine." A ruined chimney, and the bloom Of a pale purple lilac plume Close by, and this small way-side cross Told all the tale of love and loss; While near and far the fragrant day Was golden glimmering with May. |