Classic Poem

And now I hold thy letters in my hand:
As from another land
They come—they deepen holiest grief,
And yet bring some relief.

They speak of meeting—simple words and wise—
Not overmuch is said:
Yet in each sacred phrase a volume lies
For she who wrote is dead.

A few sweet thoughts and perfect words suffice,—
But the whole soul is there:
No fruitless sorrow, no prolonged advice,
Only a mother's heart laid bare.

Enough it is. I thank thee for the gift
Sent from God's starriest sky
That bids me not despair, but ever lift
My thoughts from death to love that cannot die.