Classic Poem

Spring will return, and woods grow green
From shore to shore;
But she, unseeing and unseen,
Returns no more.

Low in the ground her sleep is sweet,
And dark, and long;
No more she treads, with wandering feet,
Our maze of wrong.

No more the world's rebuke can fret
Her soul's repose;
Nor kindness woo her to forget
Her bitter woes.

She will not stir, nor speak, nor heed,
Though eyes that weep,
And sorrow-stricken hearts that bleed,
Beseech her sleep.

Yet, be it mine, above her pall,
To shed one tear,
And speak one word of love, that all
The world may hear.

A brother's place in that fond breast
'Twas mine to hold:
Ah, they loved most who knew her best, —
That heart of gold.

She was more kind than slumbers are
To eyes that grieve;
And, like the constant northern star,
Could ne'er deceive.

There was no sorrow on the earth
But touched her heart;
And in all gentle, childlike mirth
She bore a part.

There was no goodness but it won
Her reverent praise,
And full of kind deeds, simply done,
Were all her days.

She strove, through trouble's lasting blight,
For pathways smooth,
And many hands she found to smite,
And few to soothe.

A child, whom cruel want has made
A thing forlorn,
Stretching its little hands for aid,
To eyes that scorn;

And wand'ring through the winter night,
For beggar's dole,
Is not more piteous in its plight
Than was her soul.

Yet did she hope, and toil, and wait,
Heaven's will to know,
Till came the awful stroke of fate
That laid her low.

Sleep softly, softly, true and tried,
Where troubles cease;
And take at last, what Life denied,
Death's gift of peace.