 | English Roses |  |
DOROTHY.
Our Dorothy is dead,
And yet she cannot truly die;
The earth is brighter for her tread,
And still throbs with the broken tie.
The perfume of her presence
Lives on a loving essence,
A gospel that shall never lie.
O scatter lilies round her
Wherein her faith enwound her,
For she hath entered into rest;
The white flower sleeps, the city weeps,
And she is gathered to God's breast.
And yet she cannot truly die;
The earth is brighter for her tread,
And still throbs with the broken tie.
The perfume of her presence
Lives on a loving essence,
A gospel that shall never lie.
O scatter lilies round her
Wherein her faith enwound her,
For she hath entered into rest;
The white flower sleeps, the city weeps,
And she is gathered to God's breast.
81
Our Beautiful is glad,
That she hath reached the farther shore;
Then why should other souls be sad,
Because a sister went before?
A glory for our guiding
Bursts from her Home of hiding,
And teaches brothers to adore.
But still with us she watches,
And if we hear our latches
A-tremble in the troubled night,
Then passeth by our Dorothy
And lets within a gleam of light.
That she hath reached the farther shore;
Then why should other souls be sad,
Because a sister went before?
A glory for our guiding
Bursts from her Home of hiding,
And teaches brothers to adore.
But still with us she watches,
And if we hear our latches
A-tremble in the troubled night,
Then passeth by our Dorothy
And lets within a gleam of light.
Our Dorothy was here
But yesterday, and breathed an air
That seemed a finer atmosphere,
And made our meanest portion fair.
She never had her being
In this dull world of seeing,
Too fallen for angels to repair.
Love was her native leaven,
And she who dwelt in heaven
Hath now at last but entered quite
The glory, whence her innocence
Had strayed to show the Infinite.
But yesterday, and breathed an air
That seemed a finer atmosphere,
And made our meanest portion fair.
She never had her being
In this dull world of seeing,
Too fallen for angels to repair.
Love was her native leaven,
And she who dwelt in heaven
Hath now at last but entered quite
The glory, whence her innocence
Had strayed to show the Infinite.
And so she liveth yet,
A seraph soul that simply came
To kindle (though vain suns had set)
In every heart a vestal flame;
And when the dawn grows crisper
And winds essay to whisper,
Her spirit speaks in joy the same.
She stirs in each pure notion
Of delicate devotion,
And better thoughts that upward rise;
Thus Dorothy, most tenderly,
Opens the gates of Paradise.
A seraph soul that simply came
To kindle (though vain suns had set)
In every heart a vestal flame;
And when the dawn grows crisper
And winds essay to whisper,
Her spirit speaks in joy the same.
She stirs in each pure notion
Of delicate devotion,
And better thoughts that upward rise;
Thus Dorothy, most tenderly,
Opens the gates of Paradise.
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