Hers were the limbs of living light, And breasts of snow, as virginal As mountain drifts; and throat as white As foam of mountain waterfall; And hyacinthine curls, that streamed Like mountain mists, and gloomed and gleamed.
Her presence breathed such scents as haunt Deep mountain dells and solitudes, Aromas wild,--like some wild plant That fills with sweetness all the woods;-- And comradeship with stars and skies Shone in the azure of her eyes.
Her grave be by a mossy rock Upon the top of some high hill, Removed, remote from men who mock The myths, the dreams of life they kill; Where all of love and naught of lust May guard her solitary dust.
I know that from thine eyes The Spring her violets grew; Those bits of April skies, On which the green turf lies, Whereon they blossom blue.
I know that Summer wrought From thy sweet heart that rose, With such faint fragrance fraught,-- Its pale, poetic thought Of peace and deep repose.--
That Autumn, like some god, From thy delicious hair,-- Lost sunlight 'neath the sod,-- Shot up this goldenrod To toss it everywhere.
That Winter from thy breast The snowdrop's whiteness stole-- Much kinder than the rest-- Thy innocence confessed, The pureness of thy soul.
I heard the dead man, where he lay Within the open coffin, say:--
"Why do they come to weep and cry Around me now?--Because I lie So silent, and my heart's at rest? Because the pistons of my blood No more in this machinery thud? And on these eyes, that once were blessed With magnetism and fire, are pressed The soldered eyelids, like a sheath? On which the icy hand of Death Hath laid invisible coins of lead Stamped with the image of his head?
"Why will they weep and not have done? Why sorrow so? and all for one, Who, they believe, hath found the best God gives to us,--and that is rest. Why grieve?--Yea, rather let them lift The voice in thanks for such a gift, That leaves the worn hands, long that wrought, And weary feet, that sought and sought, At peace; and makes what came to naught, In life, more real now than all The good men strive for here on Earth: The love they seek; the things they call Desirable and full of worth; Yea, wisdom ev'n; and, like the South, The dreams that dewed the soul's sick drouth, And heart's sad barrenness.--God's rest, With every sigh and every tear, By them who weep above me here, Despite their Faith and Hope, 's confessed A doubt; a thing to dread and fear.