  By MARY HARRISON. “The spirit shall return to the God who gave it.” White clouds upon heaven’s bosom rest, Begotten of the sunshine’s love, Now nestled like a fondled dove Upon a woman’s loving breast. Heaven feeds her baby clouds, they grow, Then leave her for their manhood’s life; And wail and scramble in the strife Through which all earth-born children go. They sink and wander in the gloom Of winding subterranean ways, And learn the loss of heavenlier days, By groping through their chosen tomb. At length, lights gleam along the distant way, With eager thoughts of childhood, blest, And hopes of entering into rest, They leap to airy, sunny day. Now rivers slave them to the fields To fill the cattle-troughs with drink, And dress the rose-boughs on their brink, And feed the grass the meadow yields. For friends and good, they look behind, Then curse the past, and pray to be Unborn again within the sea, For birth has been to them unkind. All scenes have gone! no good has come! From bank to bank the waters heave With tides which only mock and grieve, Despairs of long-lost, hopeless home. And looking but for lulling sleep, The last deep solace of the grave, They leap to meet the leaping wave, And find their lost home in the deep. So through his day, blind man has striven, As vapor-clouds, he came to be, Drawn from, then wandering to the sea, Invisible, with God in heaven. decorative line
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