Beautiful she was to look upon
And beautiful to know,
And all who knew her loved her.
There was none to whom she was not tender,
Compassionate in her word or her silence;
There was none of whom she did not think well.

In a quiet room, my head upon her breast,
Often have I heard her heart beat,
Often have I listened to the voice of her heart,
And its speech was the speech of many sorrows.
But of her own sorrows she spoke not;
She spoke only of the grief that came to her for healing;
And her speech was silence,
Murmur of wind,
Mute spaces of sky,—
These were her caresses and her healing,
And with silence and wind and sky she is now one,—
Not separate.

She is gone.
Remember her if you will!
For me she is still everywhere
And never to be forgotten!
Out of the dawn
The fringed lashes of blue gentians widen to her eyes;
Through the hot day
The shadow of her presence revolves upon me
As the cool finger on the sun dial;
In the afternoon
Shaken light burns in the memory of her hair;
And at evening
All my thoughts go fluttering, gray-winged, after her,
Till she gathers them in to the nest of her silence
And I am come back to my Mother
And to sleep.