  We look up to the stars tonight, Idolatrous of them, And dream that Heaven is in sight, And each a ray of purest light From some celestial gem In her bright diadem. Before that lonely home we wait, Ah! nevermore to see Her lovely form within the gate Where heart and hearthstone desolate And vine and shrub and tree Seem asking: "Where is she?" There is the cottage Love had planned— Where hope in ashes lies— A tower beautiful to stand, Her monument whose gentle hand And presence in the skies Make home of Paradise. In wintry bleakness nature glows Beneath the stellar ray; We see the mold, but not the rose, Into yon mound of clay, With her who passed away. Of sighs, and tears, and joys denied Do echoes reach up there? Do seraphs know—God does—how wide And deep is sorrow's bitter tide Of dolor and despair, And darkness everywhere? Dear angel, snatched from our caress, So suddenly withdrawn, Alone are we and comfortless; As in a dome of emptiness The old routine goes on, Aimless, since thou art gone. Oh, dearer unto us than aught In all the world beside Of thee to cherish blessed thought; So early thy sweet mission wrought, As friend, as promised bride, Who lived, and loved, and died. |
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