  A A LITTLE grave in a desolate spot, Where the sun scarce shines and flowers grow not, Where the prayers of the church are never heard, And the funeral bell swings not in air, And the brooding silence is only stirred By the cries of wild birds nesting there; A low headstone, and a legend, green With moss: “Leonora, just seventeen.” Here she was laid long years ago, A child in years, but a woman in woe. Her sorrowful story is half forgot, Her playmates are old and bent and gray, And no one comes to visit the spot Where, watched by the law, was hurried away The youth cut short, and the hapless bloom Which fled from its sorrow to find the tomb. Her mourning kindred pleaded in vain The broken heart and the frenzied brain; The church had no pardon for such as died Unblessed by the church, and sternly barred All holy ground to the suicide; So death as life to the girl was hard, And the potter’s field with its deep disgrace Was her only permitted resting-place. So the friends who loved her laid her there With no word of comfort, no word of prayer, And years went by; but as, one by one, They dropped from their daily tasks and died, And turned their faces from the sun, They were carried and buried by her side,— Each gave command that such should be, “For love to keep her company.” So the little grave, with the letters green, Of “Leonora, just seventeen,” Is ringed about with kindred dust, Not lonely like the other graves In that sad place, wherein are thrust Outcasts and nameless folk and slaves, But gently held and folded fast In the arms that loved her first and last. O potter’s field, did I call you bare? No garden on earth can be more fair! For deathless love has a deathless bloom, And the lily of faithfulness a flower, And they grow beside each lowly tomb, And balm it with fragrance every hour; And with God, who forgiveth till seven times seven, A potter’s field may be gate of heaven. |
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