M * * *
When I am dead, and all will soon forget
My words, and face, and ways —
I, somehow, think I'll walk beside thee yet
Adown thy after days.
I die first, and you will see my grave;
But child! you must not cry;
For my dead hand will brightest blessings wave
O'er you from yonder sky.
You must not weep; I believe I'd hear your tears
Tho' sleeping in a tomb:
My rest would not be rest, if in your years
There floated clouds of gloom.
For — from the first — your soul was dear to mine,
And dearer it became,
Until my soul, in every prayer, would twine
Thy name — my child! thy name.
You came to me in girlhood pure and fair,
And in your soul — and face —
I saw a likeness to another there
In every trace and grace.
You came to me in girlhood — and you brought
An image back to me;
No matter what — or whose — I often sought
Another's soul in thee.
Didst ever mark how, sometimes, I became —
Gentle though I be —
Gentler than ever when I called thy name,
Gentlest to thee?
You came to me in girlhood; as your guide
I watched your spirit's ways;
We walked God's holy valleys side by side,
And so went on the days.
And so went on the years — 'tis five and more;
Your soul is fairer now;
A light as of a sunset on a shore
Is falling on my brow —