Thomas S. Collyer (1842-1893)
Yes, cross in rest the little, snow-white hands,
Do you not see the lips so faintly red
With love's last kiss? Their sweetness has not fled,
Though now you say her sinless spirit stands
Within the pale of God's bright summer lands.
Gather the soft hair round the dainty head,
As in past days. Who says that she is dead,
And nevermore will heed the old commands?
To your cold idols cling; I know she sleeps,
That her pure soul is not by vexed winds tost
Along the pathless altitudes of space.
This life but sows the seed from which one reaps
The future's harvest. No, I have not lost
The glory and the gladness of her face.
The Book of Sorrow