A tender and touching tribute to a deceased wife by Mr. Mitchell Kennerley, of New York, is contained in “Thysia, an Elegy”; this beautiful little volume was issued about a year ago, and is one of the profoundest utterances of grief appearing in print in recent years.
The lines below are taken from the poem “Alone,” which is typical of the contents of the volume:
ALONE
“The bier, the bell, the grave, silence, and night;
And you are laid in that cold ground, and gone.
I hardly missed my love till now;—O light
Of my worn, weary life, dark, dark, alone,
Blindly I feel your empty pillowed place;
O sacred head, luxuriant hair, and arm
Through the dim hours linked in some dear embrace,
Lips pressed to mine, and bosom beating warm,
Breath, than the evening breath of heaven more sweet,
Words faltering, passion-mixed, or sighed with prayer,
Shy, soft caresses of the hand, to greet
Or tell some passing need, or gentle care—
O love, all these have been; ah, woe is me,
For you are gone, and these no more shall be.
A MEMORY
“I think the gentle soul of him
Goes softly in some garden place,
With the old smile time may not dim
Upon his face.
“He was a lover of the spring,
With love that never quite forgets,
Surely sees roses blooming
And violets.
“Now that his day of toil is through,
I love to think he sits at ease,
With some old volume that he knows
Upon his knees.
“Watching, perhaps, with quiet eyes
The white clouds’ drifting argosy;
Or twilight opening flower-wise
On land and sea.
“He who so loved companionship
I may not think walks quite alone,
Failing some friendly hand to slip
Within his own.