So, cruel hand which could such joyaunce slay, For you will never write those deep-ton'd songs But how shall I endure When One, with sadder eyes than his I griev'd, O ghost of that sweet rose I kill'd, Wilt thou for ever haunt me night and day? With breath of thy dead leaves be fill'd, A DEAD WORKER. CROSS her hands upon her breast: In her toil; but, in her rest, Let them lie, cross-folden fair As they had won prayer's reward: Poor dead hands all seam'd and hard. What was she who lieth there, Little past her early youth; No one having car'd to dress Death away from ghastliness? Young? Nay, she was dull and old, With no glory in her eyes. At the rising of the sun Just a mere bald life was hers, To the inner world may bring? Faith or hope, could know no doubt. Missing Love, and so, with it, Morn-flusht skies and early dew. Silence kept without the pain Did God hold her just as dear (Hard, if so, to realize) As our saint whose soul shone clear Through her pure, pathetic eyes; Whom we gaz'd on dead as though Love itself lay still and low? In the framing of our chart, But we fancy streams and trees, There must be, whene'er we come, Oh, the home we love must be That strong Heart which loveth best : In that other country He Still is Home, so let it rest. Cross her hands and leave her so, Only He who loves can know. Ah, and if she miss'd indeed In the sowing of the seed, In the binding of the sheaves, Greater lessons God can teach In some other kind of speech. |