Classic Poem

Strange is it how the hand of Death bestows
Upon the humblest head
A crown more sweet than garlands woven of rose,
How kingly are the dead!

To-day this girl laughs out from coral lips:
Within, the smooth teeth shine.
She climbs the hills, or watches the white ships
Upon the horizon-line.

How full of lovely life she is to-day!
How her clear laughter rings!
To-morrow she is dead and passed away:
No more the young voice sings.

And then how deep the awe that holds us bound!
The merry girl we knew
Has passed beyond earth's silvery rillets' sound,
Beyond sunshine and dew.

She knows to-day what we not yet may know,
Sees what we cannot see,
Hears songs we cannot hear. She puts on now
Her immortality.

The simplest child, when crowned by death's great hand,
Becomes a queen or king;
A citizen of the untraversed land;
A dream-girt ghostlike thing.

The golden hair that once we knew so well,
Bright-shining in our sun,
Shines now in sunlight strange that never fell
On heights man's foot has won.

The eyes we loved, — that looked along with us
On green-robed hedge and plain,
Will never more regard the prospect thus,
Will gaze not thus again.

They gaze at flowers and hills we cannot see;
At stars we cannot guess:
But yesterday they smiled at you or me;
The red lips laughed their " Yes! "

To-day they will not answer. No, the child
Has outgrown our demesne.
We are the children. She was falsely styled
A child, — she is a queen.