Menella Bute Smedley

* * *

‘WIND me a summer crown,’ she said,
  ‘And set it on my brows;
For I must go, while I am young,
  Home to my Father’s house.

‘And make me ready for the day,
  And let me not be stay’d;
I would not linger on the way
  As if I was afraid.

‘O, will the golden courts of heaven,
  When I have paced them o’er,
Be lovely as the lily walks
  Which I must see no more?
 
‘And will the seraph hymns and harps,
  When they have fill’d my ear,
Be tender as my mother’s voice,
  Which I must never hear?
 
‘And shall I lie where sunsets drift,
  Or where the stars are born,
Or where the living tints are mixt
  To paint the clouds of morn?’

Your mother’s tones shall reach you still,
  Even sweeter than they were;
And the false love that broke your heart
  Shall be forgotten there:

And not a star or flower is born
  The beauty of that shore;
There is a face which you shall see
  And wish for nothing more.