  A. G. M., lingering on the threshold of eternity, looked lovingly back to tell of the glory revealed to her purified vision. "Angels are waiting," she whispered, "and all is beautiful, beautiful." Then, as her spirit winged its happy way, a sweet murmur again was heard, and the words were: "Soaring upward, upward into Heaven." They call thee dead. They say that thou art gone, Forevermore from earth. It is not so; I know thy gentle spirit will return And linger fondly round the loved below. They call thee dead. And now thou art not ours; "God touched thee," for thy work on earth was done. Thy presence was to us like summer flowers; And they are faded now; and thou art gone. I had not thought, fair girl, that thou couldst die; I knew thee gentle, innocent and gay; And dreamed not that the brightness of thine eye, Was destined thus so soon to fade away. 'Tis well: "He giveth His beloved sleep,"— O Sleeper, thou so early loved and blest! Say, were it wrong, if we who linger weep, And long to sleep, like thee, and be at rest? Ay, we who linger should not idlers be; Day hath appointed work from morn till even; And while we wait 'tis sweet to think of thee As "soaring upward, upward into heaven!" |
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