 | Her garden : a memorial poem |  |
Her Garden
Its trees shook freshness through the street,
And came we early, came we late
Its breath of balm and spice would meet
And guide us to the friendly gate;
And came we early, came we late
Its breath of balm and spice would meet
And guide us to the friendly gate;
And to the pleasant window, where,
So flower-like in her aged bloom,
She sat in her accustomed chair—
The gladness of the dear old room!
So flower-like in her aged bloom,
She sat in her accustomed chair—
The gladness of the dear old room!
Quaint room, where all things felt her smile;
The elm-boughs, shadowed on the floor;
The red hearth-fire; the blue Dutch tile;
The kerchief and the cap she wore—
The elm-boughs, shadowed on the floor;
The red hearth-fire; the blue Dutch tile;
The kerchief and the cap she wore—
Our Sweet-Pea Lady! so we speak
Of her who sat there in the light,
A baby freshness on her cheek,
Her childlike forehead smooth and white.
Of her who sat there in the light,
A baby freshness on her cheek,
Her childlike forehead smooth and white.
Her own hands sowed the millet seed
Whereon her English sparrows throve;
The silkworms that she used to feed
With fine-spun gold repaid her love.
Whereon her English sparrows throve;
The silkworms that she used to feed
With fine-spun gold repaid her love.
The dawn-like sunset of her age
In gentle thoughts and deeds she spent:
What life can show a whiter page,
A lovelier picture of content?
In gentle thoughts and deeds she spent:
What life can show a whiter page,
A lovelier picture of content?
Among her flowers she woke and slept;
Her last dim dreams they bloomed around.
A lifelong reach toward heaven she kept
Widening across her garden bound;
Her last dim dreams they bloomed around.
A lifelong reach toward heaven she kept
Widening across her garden bound;
Toward western skies a breathing-place,
Broad room for flower and shrub and tree;
A shady, hospitable plce,
Where with her it was good to be.
Broad room for flower and shrub and tree;
A shady, hospitable plce,
Where with her it was good to be.
Her garden seemed herself so much
No passing thought the twain could part;
'T were sacrilege her plants to touch—
They blossomed out of her own heart.
No passing thought the twain could part;
'T were sacrilege her plants to touch—
They blossomed out of her own heart.
Like her sweet self, in tenderness
To all the dear old-fashioned things
Whose rooted age 't were vain to guess—
Somewhere behind her fourscore springs;
To all the dear old-fashioned things
Whose rooted age 't were vain to guess—
Somewhere behind her fourscore springs;
The dear old garden—let alone
Because she loved it as a child—
Breathed out a sweetness like her own,
Its soil to lilies running wild.
Because she loved it as a child—
Breathed out a sweetness like her own,
Its soil to lilies running wild.
Her lilies of the valley bloom
And bring her back with every May:
Her lilacs weave a tender gloom
To shield us from the sun today;
And bring her back with every May:
Her lilacs weave a tender gloom
To shield us from the sun today;
Her lilacs, where she sat and talked
And bade us note her mulberry trees;
The grass-grown paths wherein she walked,
To tend and gather her sweet-peas—
And bade us note her mulberry trees;
The grass-grown paths wherein she walked,
To tend and gather her sweet-peas—
Our Sweet-Pea Lady! graciously
She wore the whiteness of her years!
Flower-like, she breathed her age away;
Her memory every flower endears.
She wore the whiteness of her years!
Flower-like, she breathed her age away;
Her memory every flower endears.
From the full garden of her heart
She scatterd blossoms everywhere;
Receiving only to impart:
No joy was sweet she could not share.
She scatterd blossoms everywhere;
Receiving only to impart:
No joy was sweet she could not share.
The susnshine misses her loved face,
The warm south window looking in;
Her elms and mulberries fill their place,
She is no more where she hath been.
The warm south window looking in;
Her elms and mulberries fill their place,
She is no more where she hath been.
For her sweet sake her garden spare,
The spot that keeps her memory green;
And let its trees refresh the air
As with a presence heavenly-clean
The spot that keeps her memory green;
And let its trees refresh the air
As with a presence heavenly-clean
Oh, narrow not its ancient bound!
Through every footpath overgrown
She guides our steps towards holier ground—
Her home, her garden, in the Unknown!
Through every footpath overgrown
She guides our steps towards holier ground—
Her home, her garden, in the Unknown!
| Her garden : a memorial poem | |