And perfect sympathy, thy shielding arm
Pillow'd a Mother's head, till life went out.
We yield thee back, with sound of holy hymns,
Flowers in thy hand, and bosom,—parting gifts
Of Spring, that makes our earth so beautiful,
Faintly prefiguring thine eternal gain
Of flowers that never fade and skies that need
Not sun nor moon to light them.
So farewell,
Our grief is selfish, yet it hath its way,