Of Her who Died.

A poem by Hattie Howard

We look up to the stars tonight,
Idolatrous of them,
And dream that Heaven is in sight,
And each a ray of purest light
From some celestial gem
In her bright diadem.

Before that lonely home we wait,
Ah! nevermore to see
Her lovely form within the gate
Where heart and hearthstone desolate
And vine and shrub and tree
Seem asking: "Where is she?"

There is the cottage Love had planned -
Where hope in ashes lies -
A tower beautiful to stand,
Her monument whose gentle hand
And presence in the skies
Make home of Paradise.

In wintry bleakness nature glows
Beneath the stellar ray;
We see the mold, but not the rose,
And meditate if knowledge goes
Into yon mound of clay,
With her who passed away.

Of sighs, and tears, and joys denied
Do echoes reach up there?
Do seraphs know - God does - how wide
And deep is sorrow's bitter tide
Of dolor and despair,
And darkness everywhere?

Dear angel, snatched from our caress,
So suddenly withdrawn,
Alone are we and comfortless;
As in a dome of emptiness
The old routine goes on,
Aimless, since thou art gone.

Oh, dearer unto us than aught
In all the world beside
Of thee to cherish blessed thought;
So early thy sweet mission wrought,
As friend, as promised bride,
Who lived, and loved, and died.

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