"Mary, wife of Charles Chauncy, died April 23, 1758, in the 24th year of her age."
Crushing the scarlet strawberries in the grass, I kneel to read the slanting stone. Alas! How sharp a sorrow speaks! A hundred years And more have vanished, with their smiles and tears, Since here was laid, upon an April day, Sweet Mary Chauncy in the grave away,— A hundred years since here her lover stood Beside her grave in such despairing mood, And yet from out the vanished past I hear His cry of anguish sounding deep and clear, And all my heart with pity melts, as though To-day's bright sun were looking on his woe. "Of such a wife, O righteous Heaven From the dark stone,—how brilliant shines the day! A low wall, over which the roses shed Their perfumed petals, shuts the quiet dead Apart a little, and the tiny square Stands in the broad and laughing field so fair, And gay green vines climb o'er the rough stone- wall, And all about the wild birds flit and call, And but a stone's-throw southward, the blue sea Rolls sparkling in and sings incessantly. Lovely as any dream the peaceful place, And scarcely changed since 'on her gentle face For the last time on that sad April day He gazed, and felt, for him, all beauty lay Buried with her forever. Dull to him Looked the bright world through eyes with tears so dim! "I soon shall follow the same dreary way That leads and opens to the coasts of day." His only hope! But when slow time had dealt Firmly with him and kindly, and he felt The storm and stress of strong and piercing pain Yielding at last, and he grew calm again, Doubtless he found another mate before He followed Mary to the happy shore! But none the less his grief appeals to me Who sit and listen to the singing sea This matchless summer day, beside the stone He made to echo with his bitter moan, And in my eyes I feel the foolish tears For buried sorrow, dead a hundred years!