  WHERE the long pastures skirt the bay And sober-eyed New England keeps The leisure of its old-time way, Among her buried kin, she sleeps. Blown o’er by winds or heaped with snow, That little mound and headstone rude Is all that marks for us below A flower of sweetest womanhood. Twenty swift years of sun and shade Have fleeted past, half unperceived, Since her delightful presence made Our lives seem worthier to be lived. The dust of days, the sands of years Have hidden her fair memory deep, And eyes once blind with bitterest tears Have long forgotten how to weep; And death and love and life have whirled To orbits new and strange since she Who was the heart of that old world Made room for these changed things to be. Past her still resting-place all day, With rush and flash and resonant roar, The tide of travel takes its way Along the bay-indented shore. Shrill sounds the flying clamor, blent With softer surge of dim-heard surf, Across the orchard closes sent To break upon her graving turf. And hearts that loved her once speed fast, Idly intent on shore and skies, Nor turn to give a look or cast A thought toward her where she lies! It is the usual lot! We live Too strenuously for long regret, Too occupied and taxed to give Our minds to perished pain; but yet, Borne on the vibrant, clanging wheels, I never pass that half-seen place, But flashing o’er my memory steals The vision of that sweet, lost face; And my heart whispers low to her, Across the distance dim and chill: “Sleep softly, dearest, do not stir, I love you—I remember still.” |
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