176
poems.
Ah! thou wast dear,—
Art dear to me, though death divides our homes.
Shall love delight the less in tranquil hour,
To meditate upon the friend in heaven
Than on the friend on earth? No: let us hold
Communion with the Infinite, Unseen,
That when our souls, death's narrow pathway past,
Shall enter at the golden gate of heaven,
It may not be as strangers, but as those
Who claim some kindred with the souls within.
Art dear to me, though death divides our homes.
Shall love delight the less in tranquil hour,
To meditate upon the friend in heaven
Than on the friend on earth? No: let us hold
Communion with the Infinite, Unseen,
That when our souls, death's narrow pathway past,
Shall enter at the golden gate of heaven,
It may not be as strangers, but as those
Who claim some kindred with the souls within.
Yes! thou art dear to me, thou glorified!
Thine was a sister's sweetness, with a truth
And dignity that almost won from me
A daughter's loving trust. O! if to thee,
Ransomed, redeemed from the embrace of earth,
Our yearning love can soar, and if thy soul
Communes with hearts left sorrowing here below,
Not vain, perchance, the tribute which I pay
To thy loved memory.
Thine was a sister's sweetness, with a truth
And dignity that almost won from me
A daughter's loving trust. O! if to thee,
Ransomed, redeemed from the embrace of earth,
Our yearning love can soar, and if thy soul
Communes with hearts left sorrowing here below,
Not vain, perchance, the tribute which I pay
To thy loved memory.
