Люси Ларком (Lucy Larcom)

Elizabeth, E.H.W. September 3, 1864

A WHITE stone glimmers through the firs,
The dry grass on her grave-mound stirs;
The sunshine scarcely warms the skies;
Pale cloudlets fleck the chilly blue;
The dawn brings frost instead of dew
To the bleak hillside where she lies.
'T is something to be near the place
Where earth conceals her dear, dead face; —
But thou, true heart, thou art not there!
Where now thou art beloved and known,
Love makes a climate of its own;
Perpetual summer in the air.
The language of that neighboring land
Already thou didst understand,
Already breathe its healthful breath,
Before thy feet its shores had pressed;
There wert thou an awaited guest,
At home in heaven, Elizabeth!
I try to guess what radiance now
Is resting on that gentle brow,
Lovelier than shone upon it here;
What heavenly work thou hast begun,
What new, immortal friendships won,
That make the life unseen so dear.
I cannot think that any change
Could ever thy sweet soul estrange
From the familiar human ties;
Thou art the same,, though inmost heaven
Its wisdom to thy thought has given,
Its beauty kindled in thine eyes.
The same to us, as warm, as true,
Whatever beautiful or new
With thy unhindered growth may blend:
Here, as life broadens, love expands;
How must it bloom in those free lands
Where thou dost walk, beloved friend!
I do not know what death may mean;
No gates can ever shut between
True heart and heart, Elizabeth;
'T is but to step from time's rude strife
A little farther into life,
And there thou art, Elizabeth!

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