Why do we grudge our sweets so to the living,
Who, God knows, find at best too much of gall,
And then with generous, open hands kneel, giving
Unto the dead our all ?
Why do we pierce the warm heart's sin or sorrow,
With idle jests, or scorn, or cruel sneers,
And when it cannot know, on some tomorrow,
Speak of its woe through tears ?
What do the dead care for the tender token--
The love, the praise, the floral offerings?
But palpitating, living hearts are broken
For want of just these things.
The Evening Bulletin [Philadelphia] 28 Jan. 1901: 7.
Courtesy of John M. Freiermuth.
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