IT was wintry, dearest Mother, when we left you to your rest,
In the sweet and sacred shadow, which you always loved the best;
The snow lay all about us, in its dreariness and chill,
And your children turned away from you. with hearts more dreary, still.
Through the flocks any Master trusts me with, wandered far and nigh,
And return, to find, that Spring has set its blueness in the sky
And shed its twinkling laughter, on the glad and glancing wave
And, dearer to my heart, than all, its greenness, on your grave.
How well do I remember, the grass-plat that you made;
And studded it, with violets, beneath a plum-tree's shade
And led me there, each sweet Spring morn, and watched me at my play;
And taught me, at the sunset, by your knees, to kneel, and pray.
Almost threescore years, my Mother, have glided by, since then;
And, a child, in all but innocence, I kneel, by you, again:
With violets, and with pansies, I perfume the sacred sod;
While I pray for grace, to join yen, in the Paradise of God.
ST. MARY'S CHURCHYARD, April 17, 1858.