For the Grave of Mrs. A. A. Foster
J UNE'S roses still in beauty round me blow;
Their fragrance fills the languid summer air;
While once again to thy dear grave I go,
And lay my simple but love-offering there.
I go to look on one thou lovedst well,—
Upon her form, robed for the silent grave.
Her soul hath sped away with thee to dwell,
Far from all sin, beyond the chilly wave.
I gave her kindly message for thine ear;
And she will tell thee, precious friend, I know,
How green thy memory in our spirits here,
How much we long where thou art gone, to go;
And, when our ties to earth like hers are riven,
We'll gladly meet you both in yon bright heaven.
Their fragrance fills the languid summer air;
While once again to thy dear grave I go,
And lay my simple but love-offering there.
I go to look on one thou lovedst well,—
Upon her form, robed for the silent grave.
Her soul hath sped away with thee to dwell,
Far from all sin, beyond the chilly wave.
I gave her kindly message for thine ear;
And she will tell thee, precious friend, I know,
How green thy memory in our spirits here,
How much we long where thou art gone, to go;
And, when our ties to earth like hers are riven,
We'll gladly meet you both in yon bright heaven.
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