Classic Poem

That is her body lying there,
So sweetly still,
As if but sleep had worked thereon
Its perfect will.

The violets strewn about her seem
To haunt her rest;
And, as in dreams, she clasps the rose
Upon her breast.

How strange it is we are so sure
She is not there,
Though all her precious outwardness
Is still so fair!

For we have seen her just as still
Full oft before;
But now we know those drowsy lids
Will ope no more.

She is not there; and, if not there,
Where must she be?
Elsewhere or nowhere, that at least
Our thought can see.

Nowhere? But then — oh, shallow thought! —
She is no more.
The most has perished, but the least
Is as before.

This cannot perish; this may change
From form to form;
In grass and blossom reaching up
To sun and storm.

A thousand summers shall grow pale
Through all the land,
And still her precious dust shall lie
In God's right hand;

And, lying there, shall take the shape
He thinketh best,
But never lovelier than is now
On it impressed.

And shall the garment that she wore
Exist so long,
And she that wore it be — as is
An ended song?

An ended song? But even that
Is somewhere still,
It doth the heart with burden sweet
Of memory fill.

May not her Somewhere be as much
As that; no more?
To walk in dream-land up and down
A sobbing shore?

To live in deeds, for her dear sake
Made pure and true;
In great aspirings that from her
Their being drew.

But that which lieth there, so still,
In grass and flower
Shall live again, nor less for that
Be memory's dower.

And shall the mask she wore have thus
A twofold life,
And she that wore it only live
Where thought is rife?

And so from Nowhere back my heart
Returns in glee;
She is not there, since, having been,
She still must be.

But, oh! how vast and dim appears
That Elsewhere land,
Where she, with others gone before,
Walks hand in hand!

My thought goes forth to seek her there,
But soon returns,
Dazed by that rose of light wherein
Her spirit burns.

Content to leave her there in peace
With her dear God,
It wanders in the earthly paths
Her feet have trod.

Then from her high and holy place,
Full soon I know,
Her thought sweeps down, my thought to meet
With music low.

With such sweet trysts as these my soul
Can be content,
Until my soul with hers again
In heaven is blent.

If thou in thy new home canst be
As patient, Sweet,
Our days will be most happy till
Again we meet.