Brave heart, whose bed has now been made
A twelve month neath the grasses,
Checkered by sunshine and by shade,
Where every breeze that passes
Hushes its song and sighs along,
With sorrow in its cadence,
Not thinking how thy sainted brow
Glows with a Christly radiance.
Do spirits hover in the air?
Do the dear dead ones never
Float on the gentle zyphers near
Out of the vast forever?
Somehow to-day my thoughts will stray
To you, oh friend, in slumber!
You seem so near, I feel you here,
One of the angel number.
Oh, face I never looked upon!
Oh, quiet, dreamless sleeper!
How strange that when you journeyed on
With death, the mighty reaper,
I missed you so. Do angels know,
Up in the City's splendor,
When hearts on earth embalm their worth,
And are they glad, I wonder?
Poems of reflection. By Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
Chicago, M.A. Donohue & company [c1905].
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