Upon her quiet face can rest our eyes,

Yet long we for it, as a weary bird

Longs all in vain to rest upon a cloud

That heavenward floats. And yet there’s solace still

In musing on her faith so strong and pure,

That recognized, through pain, God’s every wish,

And dreaded not to taste death’s cup if so

By Him decreed.

I was not there to hold

Her hand; it chilled within the orphan’s palm

Until by angels clasp’d. I could not twine

The flowers she so much loved about her shroud,

Or speak a word of comfort to the friends

That sobbed, and kissed the lips grown strangely cold,

That never parted but to speak in praise

When others tried to censure; but my heart

Beats sad to-day the measures of my verse,

And tear-drops fall.

So falls the autumn rain

Upon her grave, and drifting are the leaves

Upon the mound that loving friends have raised

In memory of her, whose spirit rests

To-day with God.