Thick are the walls! but the bleak wind will enter,
And chill her through all her long slumber, I know.
Rich are her robes! but the merciless Winter
Will beat on her breast, with its tempests of snow.
Oh, she was guarded, and shielded from sorrow--
Kept from the shadows, and darkness, alway.
But she will lie, as the beggar to-morrow--
My love--oh my love!--that is buried to-day.
1870
[WHEN I DIE]
Often, when I am alone,
Thinking of the "things unseen;"
Things to our eyes never shown,
Hidden by the veil between
This world and eternity--
To be lifted by and by.
Oft the thought has come to me,
"Who will robe me, when I die."
When the night-time swiftly nears,
And my last sleep comes apace,
And the mourners' bitter tears
Fall above my dying face;
When I pass out, white and still,
Where no mortal hand can save,
Out beyond the reach of skill--
Who will robe me, for the grave?
When my work is all complete,
And I have no more to do,
And I pass with willing feet,
From the old life, to the new;
While my dear ones numb with woe,
Weep above my pulseless heart,
Who, of all the friends I know,
Who will robe me to depart?
Who will fold my pallid hands,
On my quiet bosom; close
Eyes that gaze on other lands,
Clothe me for my last repose?
When soft fingers toy and play
With my tresses tenderly,
Oft the thought has come to me,
"Will these robe me, when I die?"
[THE UNSEEN THORN]
"Cinnamon Roses!" she said, "how fair,"
Holding them out in her finger-tips.
"Yes," I whispered, "the hue they wear
Was borrowed out of thy cheeks, and lips.
Beautiful roses! and each supposes
Itself replete, with thy graces, Sweet.
Fair they may be, yet not like thee--
See! they fade at thy smile, dear maid!"
"Give me a Rose!" and nothing loth,
She tossed a beautiful bud to me.
But I gathered the maid and the flowers both--
Close to my breast. "Not that, but thee!
I most am wanting. The dear face haunting
My heart each hour, is the sweetest flower."
And I gathered close the face like a rose,
And kissed her lips and her finger-tips.