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In Loving Memory Poems

Table of Contents

  1. He is not lost our dearest love by Anonymous
  2. When We Have Lost a Friend by Amos Russel Wells
  3. In the Garden by C. Austin Miles
  4. Family o' mine: I should like to send you a sunbeam by Anonymous
  5. Farewell by Anne Bronte
  6. If roses grow in heaven by Anonymous
  7. Departed Comrade by Lucretius
  8. To The Friends of Mrs. H.C. by ENS
  9. A Lost Love by Henry Frances Lyte
  10. The Meeting by Hannah Flagg Gould
  11. Why Don't He Come by Hannah Flagg Gould
  12. Sentence by Witter Bynner
  13. Each that we lose takes part of us by Emily Dickinson
  14. She Came and Went by James Russell Lowell
  15. As by the dead we love to sit by Emily Dickinson
  16. I meant to find her when I came by Emily Dickinson
  17. Memorials by Emily Dickinson
  18. The Rock by Amos Russel Wells
  19. To know just how he suffered would be dear by Emily Dickinson
  20. At Length by Emily Dickinson
  21. The Reaper and the Flowers by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  22. A Chrysalis by Mary Emily Bradley
  23. The Morning-Glory by Maria White Lowell
  24. The First Snow-Fall by James Russell Lowell
  25. My Child by John Pierpont
  1. My Daughter Louise by Homer Greene
  2. The Reverie of Poor Susan by William Wordsworth
  3. The Child's Wish Granted by George Parsons Lathrop
  4. The New Tomb by Hannah Flagg Gould
  5. The Playthings by Hannah Flagg Gould
  6. "Are the Children at Home?" by Margaret Sangster
  7. Death of the Beautiful by Eliza Lee Fallen
  8. Requiem by Emily Dickinson
  9. Early Death by Hartley Coleridge
  10. Adieu by Henry Frances Lyte
  11. Rose-Marie of the Angels by Adelaide Crapsey
  12. We Met by Mary E. Tucker
  13. Gone by Henry Frances Lyte
  14. Dora by Thomas Edward Brown
  15. Sarah by Hannah Flagg Gould
  16. Lucy by William Wordsworth
  17. Rose-Marie of the Angels by Adelaide Crapsey
  18. We Met by Mary E. Tucker
  19. Gone by Mary E. Tucker
  20. Dora by Thomas Edward Brown
  21. Lines on the Death of a Farmer's Wife by James McIntyre
  22. Sister's Harp by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott
  23. You Never by Anonymous
  24. Highland Mary by Robert Burns
  25. Picking Berries That Day by Annie Armstrong
  26. Music, When Soft Voices Die by Percy Bysshe Shelley
  27. Remembrance by Emily Brontë
  28. The Reapers and the Flowers by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
  29. The Little Straw Hat by Appleton Oaksmith

  1. He is not lost our dearest love

    by Anonymous

    He is not lost our dearest love,
    Nor has he travelled far,
    Just stepped inside home's loveliest room
    And left the door ajar.

  2. When We Have Lost a Friend

    by Amos Russel Wells

    When soldiers die and kings depart
    And statesmen pass away,
    And men of gold in bank and mart
    Return to common clay,
    Our laurel wreaths we proudly bring,
    Our panegyrics blend;
    But ah, it is a sadder thing
    When we have lost a friend!

    When artists lay their palettes down,
    And singers mutely rest;
    When builders of a mighty town
    Lie in a narrow chest,
    We praise their genius towering tall,
    Their godlike works commend;
    But ah, the human tears that fall
    When we have lost a friend!

    Too deep for shallow-sounding phrase,
    Too full for formal bound,
    Our memories bloom where'er we gaze
    And live in every sound.
    We cannot speak our aching loss,
    Nor even comprehend;
    But every byway has a cross
    When we have lost a friend.

    A friend is such a blessed boon,
    To comfort and to cheer;
    Decemher glows with light of June
    When any friend is near;
    And want is plenty, sickness health,
    And longest sorrows end,
    When we have found earth's rarest wealth,
    When we have found a friend.

    And such was he, this friendly man,
    This man of sunny mood,
    Of happiness the artisan,
    The prince of brotherhood!
    Oh, heaven is a cheery place
    Where such as he ascend;
    Let us go on a little space
    And we shall find our friend.

  3. I'll lend you a child

    by Edgar Guest

    "I'll lend you for a little time a child of Mine." He said.
    "For you to love the while he lives
    And mourn for when he's dead.
    It may be six or seven years
    Or twenty-two or three,
    But will you, till I call him back,
    Take care of him for Me?"
    He'll bring his charms to gladden you,
    And should his stay be brief
    You'll have his lovely memories
    As solace for your grief."

    "I cannot promise he will stay
    Since all from Earth return,
    But there are lessons taught down there
    I want this child to learn.
    I've looked the wide world over
    In my search for teachers true,
    And from the throngs that crowd life's lanes
    I have selected you.
    Now will you give him all your love,
    Not think the labour vain,
    Nor hate Me when I come to call
    And take him back again."

    I fancied that I heard them say,
    "Dear Lord, Thy will be done,
    For all the joy Thy child shall bring,
    The risk of grief we run.
    We'll shelter him with tenderness,
    We'll love him while we may,
    And for the happiness we've known,
    Forever grateful stay.
    But should the angels call for him
    Much sooner than we planned,
    We'll brave the bitter grief that comes
    and try to understand."

  4. Family o' mine: I should like to send you a sunbeam

    by Anonymous

    Family o' mine:
    I should like to send you a sunbeam, or the twinkle of some bright star,
    or a tiny piece of the downy fleece that clings to a cloud afar.
    I should like to send you the essence of a myriad sun-kissed flowers,
    or the lilting song as it floats along, of a brook through fairy bowers.

    I should like to send you the dew-drops that glisten at break of day,
    and then at night the eerie light that mantles the Milky Way.
    I should like to send you the power that nothing can overflow —
    the power to smile and laugh the while a-jouneying through life you go.
    But these are mere fanciful wishes; I'll send you a Godspeed instead,
    and I'll clasp your hand - then you'll understand all the things I have left unsaid.

  5. Farewell

    by Anne Bronte

    Farewell to Thee! But not farewell
    To all my fondest thoughts of Thee;
    Within my heart they still shall dwell
    And they shall cheer and comfort me.

    Life seems more sweet that Thou didst live
    And men more true Thou wert one;
    Nothing is lost that Thou didst give,
    Nothing destroyed that Thou hast done.

  6. If roses grow in heaven

    by Anonymous

    If roses grow in heaven,
    Lord please pick a bunch for me,
    Place them in my Mother's arms
    and tell her they're from me.

    Tell her I love her and miss her,
    and when she turns to smile,
    place a kiss upon her cheek
    and hold her for awhile.

    Because remembering her is easy,
    I do it every day,
    but there's an ache within my heart
    that will never go away.

  7. Departed Comrade

    by Lucretius

    Departed comrade! Thou, redeemed from pain
    Shall sleep the sleep that kings desire in vain:
    Not thine the sense of loss
    But lo, for us the void
    That never shall be filled again.
    Not thine but ours the grief.
    All pain is fled from thee.
    And we are weeping in thy stead;
    Tears for the mourners who are left behind
    Peace everlasting for the quiet dead.

  8. To The Friends of Mrs. H.C.

    by ENS

    Salvation dwelt upon her tongue,
    Expiring as she lay;
    Then hasting to her Father's throne,
    The spirit winged its way.
    But mourn her not for ever fled
    To purer realms on high;
    Tis glory now surrounds her head,
    And sparkles in her eye.
    She trusted in her Saviour's name,
    Invited Him to come;
    Your loss is her eternal gain,
    For now she shares His throne.

  9. A Lost Love

    by Henry Frances Lyte

    I meet thy pensive, moonlight face;
    Thy thrilling voice I hear;
    And former hours and scenes retrace,
    Too fleeting, and too dear!

    Then sighs and tears flow fast and free,
    Though none is nigh to share;
    And life has nought beside for me
    So sweet as this despair.

    There are crush'd hearts that will not break;
    And mine, methinks, is one;
    Or thus I should not weep and wake,
    And thou to slumber gone.

    I little thought it thus could be
    In days more sad and fair
    That earth could have a place for me,
    And thou no longer there.

    Yet death cannot our hearts divide,
    Or make thee less my own:
    Twere sweeter sleeping at thy side
    Than watching here alone.

    Yet never, never can we part,
    While Memory holds her reign:
    Thine, thine is still this wither'd heart,
    Till we shall meet again.

  10. The Meeting

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    We met upon Mount Auburn, ere its sod
    Was strewed with drops from sorrow's languid eye;
    Before its shadowy walks the mourner trod,
    Or to its balmy air released the sigh.

    The spot had just been rendered hallowed ground,
    By solemn rite and consecrating prayer;
    It bore no marble, heaved no sacred mound,
    But Nature reigned in placid beauty there.

    And as we stood, and viewed the peaceful scene,
    Our thought and converse on its purpose ran;
    And on the swiftness of the race, between
    The point of starting, and the goal of man.

    He plucked for me a branch, where wide and high
    The thick, green boughs around us hung a shade,
    But thought not, that his lips and beaming eye
    Must close for ever, ere its leaves should fade.

    We never met again! The branch retained
    Its verdure, when his eye had lost its light.
    The vital flame within his bosom waned,
    And left it cold, while yet my branch was bright.

    A few short days—and he was on the deep,
    Whose swelling surges he should cross no more.
    In foreign earth the stranger's ashes sleep—
    His spirit walks the everlasting shore!

    But, we shall meet again! While, 'dust to dust,'
    Of this frail house of clay may soon be said,
    Its tenant His unfailing word will trust,
    Whose second coming shall revive the dead.

    On that great morning may our meeting be
    Among the flowery hills without a grave,
    And in the shade of that unfading Tree,
    Whose boughs with healing for the nations wave!

  11. Why Don't He Come

    Death finds no tie too strong to break.

    Why Don't He Come
    Hannah Flagg Gould
    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    The ship has anchored in the bay;
    They've dropped her weary wings; and some
    Have manned the boat and come away;
    But where is he? Why don't he come?

    Among the crowd with busy feet,
    My eye seeks one it cannot find.
    While others haste their friends to greet,
    Why, why is he so long behind?

    Because he bade me dry my cheek,
    I dried it, when he went from us;
    I smiled with lips that could not speak;
    And now, how can he linger thus?

    I've felt a brother's parting kiss
    Each moment since he turned from me,
    To lose it only in the bliss
    Of meeting him—Where can he be?

    I've reared the rose, he bade me rear;
    I've learnt the song, he bade me learn;
    And nursed the bird, that he might hear
    Us sing to him, at his return.

    I've braided many a lovely flower
    His dear, dear picture to inwreathe;
    While doating fancy, hour by hour,
    Has made it smile and seen it breathe.

    I wonder if the flight of time
    Has made the likeness now untrue;
    And if the sea and foreign clime
    Have touched him with a darker hue.

    For I have watched, until the sun
    Has made my longing vision dim;
    But cannot catch a glimpse of one
    Among the crowd, that looks like him.

    How slow the heavy moments waste,
    While thus he stays! Where can he be?
    My heart leaps forth; haste, brother, haste!
    It leaps to meet and welcome thee.

    'Thou lovely one! the mournful tale
    That tells why he comes not, will make
    Thy heart to bleed; thy cheek turn pale!
    Death finds no tie too strong to break!

    'The bird will wait its master long,
    And ask his morning gift in vain.
    Ye both must now forget the song
    Of joy, for sorrow's plaintive strain.

    'The face, whose shade thy tender hand
    Has wreathed with flowers, is changed! But sea,
    Nor sun, nor air of foreign land
    Has wrought the change; for where is he?

    'Where! ah! the solemn deep that took
    His form, as with their sad farewell,
    His brethren gave the last, last look,
    And lowered him down, that deep must tell!

    'But ocean cannot tell the whole—
    The part that death can never chill,
    Nor floods dissolve; the living soul
    Is happy, bright and blooming still.

    'And nobler songs than ever sound
    From mortal voices greet his ear,
    Where sweeter, fairer flowers are found
    Than all he left to wither here.

    'This, this is why he does not come,
    Whom thy fond eye has sought so long!
    Wait till thy days have filled their sum;
    Then find him in an angel throng!'

  12. Sentence

    by Witter Bynner

    Shall I say that what heaven gave
    Earth has taken?—
    Or that sleepers in the grave

    One sole sentence can I know,
    Can I say:
    You, my comrade, had to go,
    I to stay.

  13. Each that we lose takes part of us

    by Emily Dickinson

    Each that we lose takes part of us;
    A crescent still abides,
    Which like the moon, some turbid night,
    Is summoned by the tides.

  14. She Came and Went

    by James Russell Lowell

    As a twig trembles, which a bird
    Lights on to sing, then leaves unbent,
    So is my memory thrilled and stirred;—
    I only know she came and went.

    As clasps some lake, by gusts unriven,
    The blue dome's measureless content,
    So my soul held that moment's heaven;—
    I only know she came and went.

    As, at one bound, our swift spring heaps
    The orchards full of bloom and scent,
    So clove her May my wintry sleeps;—
    I only know she came and went.

    An angel stood and met my gaze,
    Through the low doorway of my tent;
    The tent is struck, the vision stays;—
    I only know she came and went.

    Oh, when the room grows slowly dim,
    And life's last oil is nearly spent,
    One gush of light these eyes will brim,
    Only to think she came and went.

  15. As by the dead we love to sit

    by Emily Dickinson

    As by the dead we love to sit,
    Become so wondrous dear,
    As for the lost we grapple,
    Though all the rest are here, —

    In broken mathematics
    We estimate our prize,
    Vast, in its fading ratio,
    To our penurious eyes!

  16. I meant to find her when I came

    by Emily Dickinson

    I meant to find her when I came;
    Death had the same design;
    But the success was his, it seems,
    And the discomfit mine.

    I meant to tell her how I longed
    For just this single time;
    But Death had told her so the first,
    And she had hearkened him.

    To wander now is my abode;
    To rest, — to rest would be
    A privilege of hurricane
    To memory and me.

  17. Memorials

    by Emily Dickinson

    Death sets a thing significant
    The eye had hurried by,
    Except a perished creature
    Entreat us tenderly

    To ponder little workmanships
    In crayon or in wool,
    With "This was last her fingers did,"
    Industrious until

    The thimble weighed too heavy,
    The stitches stopped themselves,
    And then 't was put among the dust
    Upon the closet shelves.

    A book I have, a friend gave,
    Whose pencil, here and there,
    Had notched the place that pleased him, —
    At rest his fingers are.

    Now, when I read, I read not,
    For interrupting tears
    Obliterate the etchings
    Too costly for repairs.

  18. The Rock

    by Anonymous

    Encircled by the sea, a stony ledge
    Lies at the breaker's edge.
    The ebbing and the flowing of the tide
    Disclose the rock, and hide.
    Now like a granite lion crouching there
    Its head is black in air,
    And now the whelming waters in a night
    Have stolen it from sight.

    Still to the nether deep its rocky root
    And stone foundations shoot;
    Far down, far down, its granite pillar goes
    Where tide nor ebbs nor flows,
    Unseen or seen, beneath the surges' roar,
    Based on earth's central core.

    What cares the rock, though now its head is high,
    Now hidden from the sky,—
    A little more, perchance a little less,
    For human eyes to guess?
    What matter where the fickle waters run?
    The rock and Earth are one!

    And thus, poor friends, who mourn, uncomforted,
    Your loved, untimely dead.
    What though the murky and relentless sea
    Rose unexpectedly,
    And that dear form your life were given to save
    Lies underneath the wave?

    Look with the leaping eye of conquering faith
    The gloomy flood beneath;
    Well do you know to what unending ends
    That vanished life extends;
    Well do you know what vast Foundation Stone
    Its hope was fixed upon,
    Based on the quiet, peaceful, ocean floor,—
    The life for evermore!

    Death's tide some day will let its captives free:
    There shall be no more sea!

  19. To know just how he suffered would be dear

    by Emily Dickinson

    To know just how he suffered would be dear;
    To know if any human eyes were near
    To whom he could intrust his wavering gaze,
    Until it settled firm on Paradise.

    To know if he was patient, part content,
    Was dying as he thought, or different;
    Was it a pleasant day to die,
    And did the sunshine face his way?

    What was his furthest mind, of home, or God,
    Or what the distant say
    At news that he ceased human nature
    On such a day?

    And wishes, had he any?
    Just his sigh, accented,
    Had been legible to me.
    And was he confident until
    Ill fluttered out in everlasting well?

    And if he spoke, what name was best,
    What first,
    What one broke off with
    At the drowsiest?

    Was he afraid, or tranquil?
    Might he know
    How conscious consciousness could grow,
    Till love that was, and love too blest to be,
    Meet — and the junction be Eternity?

  20. At Length

    by Emily Dickinson

    Her final summer was it,
    And yet we guessed it not;
    If tenderer industriousness
    Pervaded her, we thought

    A further force of life
    Developed from within, —
    When Death lit all the shortness up,
    And made the hurry plain.

    We wondered at our blindness, —
    When nothing was to see
    But her Carrara guide-post, —
    At our stupidity,

    When, duller than our dulness,
    The busy darling lay,
    So busy was she, finishing,
    So leisurely were we!

  21. Father and I

    by Ruby Archer

    Father and I were gypsies.—
    We tried to lose our way
    Among the woodland mystery,
    When we'd a holiday.

    My hand about his finger,
    We followed brook and dell.
    No need to voice our ecstasy—
    The robins told it well.

    His love I took for granted,
    Owned every dear caress,
    Nor dreame'd of how a little girl
    Would feel when fatherless.

    Now I, poor lonely gypsey,
    Roam wood and hill and blue;
    But no one loves them all with me
    As Father used to do.

  22. My Father

    My father was "an honest man—
    The noblest work of God!

    - Richard Coe
    My Father
    by Richard Coe

    My father was a parent kind,
    And loved his children dear;
    And when his hour of death drew nigh
    We shed full many a tear;
    We wept—but not in bitterness,
    For well we knew that he
    Enjoy'd throughout the shadow-vale
    The smile of Deity!

    He had a pleasant word for all
    Who came within his way,
    A smile was ever on his face—
    A kind, benignant ray.
    Where'er he roam'd he made him friends
    Of high or low degree;
    The only birthright that he own'd
    Was sterling honesty!

    Misfortune's heavy shadow fell
    Upon his later years,
    We mark'd with grief his failing strength,
    And turn'd to hide our tears:
    At length an angel messenger
    Commission'd from the sky,
    Approach'd my father with a smile,
    And bore his soul on high!

    We laid him in his quiet grave,
    A rural, soft retreat,
    And turn'd our faces from the spot,
    With slow, unwilling feet!
    We raised no graven monument
    Above his humble sod;—
    My father was "an honest man—
    The noblest work of God!

  23. Death of Child

  24. The Reaper and the Flowers

    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    There is a Reaper whose name is Death,
    And, with his sickle keen,
    He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
    And the flowers that grow between.

    "Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
    "Have naught but the bearded grain?
    Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
    I will give them all back again."

    He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
    He kissed their drooping leaves;
    It was for the Lord of Paradise
    He bound them in his sheaves.

    "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
    The Reaper said, and smiled;
    "Dear tokens of the earth are they,
    Where he was once a child.

    "They shall all bloom in the fields of light,
    Transplanted by my care,
    And saints, upon their garments white,
    These sacred blossoms wear."

    And the mother gave in tears and pain
    The flowers she most did love;
    She knew she should find them all again
    In the fields of light above.

    O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
    The Reaper came that day,
    'T was an angel visited the green earth,
    And took the flowers away.

  25. A Chrysalis

    by Mary Emily Bradley.

    My little Mädchen found one day
    A curious something in her play,
    That was not fruit, nor flower, nor seed;
    It was not anything that grew,
    Or crept, or climbed, or swam, or flew;
    Had neither legs nor wings, indeed;
    And yet she was not sure, she said,
    Whether it was alive or dead.

    She brought it in her tiny hand
    To see if I would understand,
    And wondered when I made reply,
    "You've found a baby butterfly."
    "A butterfly is not like this,"
    With doubtful look she answered me.
    So then I told her what would be
    Some day within the chrysalis:
    How, slowly, in the dull brown thing
    Now still as death, a spotted wing,
    And then another, would unfold,
    Till from the empty shell would fly
    A pretty creature, by and by,
    All radiant in blue and gold.

    "And will it, truly?" questioned she—
    Her laughing lips and eager eyes
    All in a sparkle of surprise—
    "And shall your little Mädchen see?"
    "She shall!" I said. How could I tell
    That ere the worm within its shell
    Its gauzy, splendid wings had spread,
    My little Mädchen would be dead?

    To-day the butterfly has flown,—
    She was not here to see it fly,—
    And sorrowing I wonder why
    The empty shell is mine alone.
    Perhaps the secret lies in this:
    I too had found a chrysalis,
    And Death that robbed me of delight
    Was but the radiant creature's flight!

  26. The Morning-Glory

    by Maria White Lowell

    We wreathed about our darling's head
    The morning-glory bright;
    Her little face looked out beneath,
    So full of life and light,
    So lit as with a sunrise,
    That we could only say,
    "She is the morning-glory true,
    And her poor types are they."

    So always from that happy time
    We called her by their name,
    And very fitting did it seem—
    For, sure as morning came,
    Behind her cradle bars she smiled
    To catch the first faint ray,
    As from the trellis smiles the flower
    And opens to the day.

    But not so beautiful they rear
    Their airy cups of blue,
    As turned her sweet eyes to the light,
    Brimmed with sleep's tender dew;
    And not so close their tendrils fine
    Round their supports are thrown,
    As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
    Clasped all hearts to her own.

    We used to think how she had come,
    Even as comes the flower,
    The last and perfect added gift
    To crown Love's morning hour;
    And how in her was imaged forth
    The love we could not say,
    As on the little dewdrops round
    Shines back the heart of day.

    We never could have thought, O God,
    That she must wither up,
    Almost before a day was flown,
    Like the morning-glory's cup;
    We never thought to see her droop
    Her fair and noble head,
    Till she lay stretched before our eyes,
    Wilted, and cold, and dead!

    The morning-glory's blossoming
    Will soon be coming round—
    We see the rows of heart-shaped leaves
    Upspringing from the ground;
    The tender things the winter killed
    Renew again their birth,
    But the glory of our morning
    Has passed away from earth.

    O Earth! in vain our aching eyes
    Stretch over thy green plain!
    Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air
    Her spirit to sustain;
    But up in groves of Paradise
    Full surely we shall see
    Our morning-glory beautiful
    Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

  27. The First SnowFall

    The First Snowfall
    The First Snowfall
    by Iris White
    by James Russell Lowell

    The snow had begun in the gloaming,
    And busily all the night
    Had been heaping field and highway
    With a silence deep and white.

    Every pine and fir and hemlock
    Wore ermine too dear for an earl,
    And the poorest twig on the elm-tree
    Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

    From sheds new-roofed with Carrara
    Came Chanticleer's muffled crow,
    The stiff rails softened to swan's-down,
    And still fluttered down the snow.

    I stood and watched by the window
    The noiseless work of the sky,
    And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,
    Like brown leaves whirling by.

    I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
    Where a little headstone stood;
    How the flakes were folding it gently,
    As did robins the babes in the wood.

    Up spoke our own little Mabel,
    Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"
    And I told of the good All-father
    Who cares for us here below.

    Again I looked at the snow-fall,
    And thought of the leaden sky
    That arched o'er our first great sorrow,
    When that mound was heaped so high.

    I remembered the gradual patience
    That fell from that cloud like snow,
    Flake by flake, healing and hiding
    The scar that renewed our woe.

    And again to the child I whispered,
    "The snow that husheth all,
    Darling, the merciful Father
    Alone can make it fall"

    Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;
    And she, kissing back, could not know
    That my kiss was given to her sister,
    Folded close under deepening snow.

  28. My Child

    by John Pierpont

    I cannot make him dead!
    His fair sunshiny head
    Is ever bounding round my study chair;
    Yet when my eyes, now dim
    With tears, I turn to him,
    The vision vanishes,—he is not there!

    I walk my parlor floor,
    And, through the open door,
    I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;
    I'm stepping toward the hall
    To give my boy a call;
    And then bethink me that—he is not there!

    I thread the crowded street;
    A satchelled lad I meet,
    With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;
    And, as he's running by,
    Follow him with my eye,
    Scarcely believing that—he is not there!

    I know his face is hid
    Under the coffin-lid;
    Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;
    My hand that marble felt;
    O'er it in prayer I knelt;
    Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there!

    I cannot make him dead!
    When passing by the bed,
    So long watched over with parental care,
    My spirit and my eye,
    Seek him inquiringly,
    Before the thought comes that—he is not there!

    When, at the cool gray break
    Of day, from sleep I wake,
    With my first breathing of the morning air
    My soul goes up, with joy,
    To Him who gave my boy;
    Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!

  29. My Daughter Louise

    by Homer Greene

    In the light of the moon, by the side of the water,
    My seat on the sand and her seat on my knees,
    We watch the bright billows, do I and my daughter,
    My sweet little daughter Louise.
    We wonder what city the pathway of glory,
    That broadens away to the limitless west,
    Leads up to—she minds her of some pretty story
    And says: "To the city that mortals love best."
    Then I say: "It must lead to the far away city,
    The beautiful City of Rest."

    In the light of the moon, by the side of the water,
    Stand two in the shadow of whispering trees,
    And one loves my daughter, my beautiful daughter,
    My womanly daughter Louise.
    She steps to the boat with a touch of his fingers,
    And out on the diamonded pathway they move;
    The shallop is lost in the distance, it lingers,
    It waits, but I know that its coming will prove
    That it went to the walls of the wonderful city,
    The magical City of Love.

    In the light of the moon, by the side of the water,
    I wait for her coming from over the seas;
    I wait but to welcome the dust of my daughter,
    To weep for my daughter Louise.
    The path, as of old, reaching out in its splendor,
    Gleams bright, like a way that an angel has trod;
    I kiss the cold burden its billows surrender,
    Sweet clay to lie under the pitiful sod:
    But she rests, at the end of the path, in the city
    Whose "builder and maker is God."

  30. The Reverie of Poor Susan

    by William Wordsworth

    At the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears,
    Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three years:
    Poor Susan has passed by the spot, and has heard
    In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.

    'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her? She sees
    A mountain ascending, a vision of trees;
    Bright volumes of vapor through Lothbury glide,
    And a river flows on through the vale of Cheapside.

    Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale,
    Down which she so often has tripped with her pail;
    And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's,
    The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.

    She looks, and her heart is in heaven: but they fade,
    The mist and the river, the hill and the shade:
    The stream will not flow, and the hill will not rise,
    And the colors have all passed away from her eyes!

  31. The Child's Wish Granted

    by George Parsons Lathrop

    Do you remember, my sweet, absent son,
    How in the soft June days forever done
    You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high;
    And when I lifted you, soft came your cry,—
    "Put me 'way up—'way, 'way up in blue sky"?

    I laughed and said I could not;—set you down,
    Your gray eyes wonder-filled beneath that crown
    Of bright hair gladdening me as you raced by.
    Another Father now, more strong than I,
    Has borne you voiceless to your dear blue sky.

  32. The New Tomb

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    They've finished the darksome abode,
    Of silence, of death and of dust!
    And who, of the train that are thronging the road
    To this mansion, shall enter it first?

    It is not the silvery head,
    That here shall be first to repose;
    Nor the babe, that shall come to the house of the dead,
    Ere the bud of its life can unclose.

    But mark him, whose cheek is so bright
    With the freshness of beauty and youth—
    Whose step is so firm, and whose bosom so light
    With the glow of affection and truth!

    Ere care has o'ershadowed his brow,
    With the roses of health all in bloom,
    From the many, who love him, he comes even now;
    For he is the first for the tomb!

    And shall he, who could carry the charm
    Of joy wheresoe'er he was known—
    Shall he with affections, so kindly and warm,
    Come down and repose here alone?

    Oh! no—from the sorrowing train
    There hastens a beautiful maid—
    Ere the moon shall be full in her lustre again,
    Her form by his side will be laid!

    The kindred in blood, far from sight,
    Together shall slumber in peace;
    The kindred in spirit their voices unite
    In praises, that never shall cease.

    They would not their friends should bewail
    Their absence from scenes they have trod!
    They beckon the mourner to look through the veil,
    Where they shine with the brightness of God!

  33. The Playthings

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    "Oh! mother, here's the very top,
    That brother used to spin;
    The vase with seeds I've seen him drop
    To call our robin in;
    The line that held his pretty kite,
    His bow, his cup and ball,
    The slate on which he learned to write,
    His feather, cap and all!"

    "My dear, I'd put the things away
    Just where they were before:
    Go, Anna, take him out to play,
    And shut the closet door.
    Sweet innocent! he little thinks
    The slightest thought expressed,
    Of him that's lost, too deeply sinks
    Within a mother's breast!"

  34. "Are the Children at Home?"

    by Margaret Sangster

    Each day, when the glow of sunset
    Fades in the western sky,
    And the wee ones, tired of playing,
    Go tripping lightly by,
    I steal away from my husband,
    Asleep in his easy-chair,
    And watch from the open doorway
    Their faces fresh and fair.

    Alone in the dear old homestead
    That once was full of life,
    Ringing with girlish laughter,
    Echoing boyish strife,
    We two are waiting together;
    And oft, as the shadows come,
    With tremulous voice he calls me,
    "It is night! are the children home?"

    "Yes, love!" I answer him gently,
    "They're all home long ago;"—
    And I sing, in my quivering treble,
    A song so soft and low,
    Till the old man drops to slumber,
    With his head upon his hand,
    And I tell to myself the number
    At home in the better land.

    At home, where never a sorrow
    Shall dim their eyes with tears!
    Where the smile of God is on them
    Through all the summer years!
    I know,—yet my arms are empty,
    That fondly folded seven,
    And the mother-heart within me
    Is almost starved for heaven.

    Sometimes, in the dusk of evening,
    I only shut my eyes,
    And the children are all about me,
    A vision from the skies:
    The babes whose dimpled fingers
    Lost the way to my breast,
    And the beautiful ones, the angels,
    Passed to the world of the blest.

    With never a cloud upon them,
    I see their radiant brows;
    My boys that I gave to freedom,—
    The red sword sealed their vows!
    In a tangled Southern forest,
    Twin brothers bold and brave,
    They fell; and the flag they died for,
    Thank God! floats over their grave.

    A breath, and the vision is lifted
    Away on wings of light,
    And again we two are together,
    All alone in the night.
    They tell me his mind is failing,
    But I smile at idle fears;
    He is only back with the children,
    In the dear and peaceful years.

    And still, as the summer sunset
    Fades away in the west,
    And the wee ones, tired of playing,
    Go trooping home to rest,
    My husband calls from his corner,
    "Say, love, have the children come?"
    And I answer, with eyes uplifted,
    "Yes, dear! they are all at home."

  35. Death of the Beautiful

    by Eliza Lee Fallen

    The young, the lovely, pass away,
    Ne'er to be seen again;
    Earth's fairest flowers too soon decay,
    Its blasted trees remain.

    Full oft, we see the brightest thing
    That lifts its head on high,
    Smile in the light, then droop its wing,
    And fade away and die.

    And kindly is the lesson given;
    Then dry the falling tear:
    They came to raise our hearts to Heaven;
    They go to call us there.

  36. Requiem

    by Emily Dickinson

    Taken from men this morning,
    Carried by men to-day,
    Met by the gods with banners
    Who marshalled her away.

    One little maid from playmates,
    One little mind from school, —
    There must be guests in Eden;
    All the rooms are full.

    Far as the east from even,
    Dim as the border star, —
    Courtiers quaint, in kingdoms,
    Our departed are.

  37. Early Death

    by Hartley Coleridge

    She passed away like morning dew
    Before the sun was high;
    So brief her time, she scarcely knew
    The meaning of a sigh.

    As round the rose its soft perfume,
    Sweet love around her floated;
    Admired she grew-while mortal doom
    Crept on, unfeared, unnoted.

    Love was her guardian Angel here,
    But Love to Death resigned her;
    Though Love was kind, why should we fear
    But holy Death is kinder?

  38. Adieu

    by Mary E. Tucker

    Life is full of mirth and pleasure,
    But all joy is on the wing —
    Base alloy corrodes each treasure,
    And enjoyment hides a sting.
    Bliss is like a rainbow, cheating,
    Beautiful and bright, but fleeting.

    True, there's real bliss in the greeting
    Of each loving, kindred heart;
    But a sadness dims our meeting,
    For we know we soon must part —
    Thus ties of Love, and friendship true,
    Are severed by the sad adieu.

    Adieu, and from the mother's eyes
    Streams her deep love, in tears.
    Adieu, adieu, my child, she cries,
    Adieu, perchance for years.
    And of our parting, keep this token,
    My bitter tears — my heart is broken.

    And that mother, in her anguish,
    Prays to God that she may die —
    Better thus, than still to languish,
    Crying ever, this sad cry:
    Give me back my child, my treasure,
    Ye have o'erflown my bitter measure.

    Alas! the hand of reckless fate,
    As on time's wings, she flies;
    Severs, with most remorseless hate,
    The tenderest, holiest ties.
    E'en sacred bonds of heaven's making,
    Fate laughs to scorn, and smiles in breaking.

    Thus all earthly friendships sever —
    Such is Heaven's stern decree.
    But God's loved ones meet, to never
    Part again in land of free,—
    There, there above the sky's deep blue,
    Hearts are not broken by adieu.

  39. Sarah

    by Hannah Flagg Gould

    She had not breathed this world's inclement air
    Till it had chilled, or touched her with a blight.
    She had not lived till sorrow, pain, or care
    Had marked her brow, or dimmed her spirit's light.

    Beauty and health hung round her infant form.
    Ten hasty summers had not o'er her flown.
    Her guileless heart was happy, pure and warm;
    And she believed all others like her own.

    She was a shining creature God had lent
    This world awhile, too holy to be given!
    And SARAH knew that she was only sent
    To visit earth, and that her home was heaven.

    And, finding much to lure and bind her here,
    She smiled on all around her, while within,
    Her little angel bosom felt a fear,
    Lest thoughts might enter with the stain of sin.

    The things of time, the flowery fields of earth
    Had much to charm; to win her childish love:
    But still she doubted if they all were worth
    The brighter scenes that she should find above.

    She therefore made her young and tender heart
    A morning off'ring for her God to keep;
    So that, if summoned early to depart,
    Upon his bosom she might fall asleep.

    Some spirit-messenger of his had come,
    But none knew how, or when, to Sarah's ear,
    And told her she had nearly filled the sum
    Of days allotted for her being here!

    She startled not at this. The warning word,
    That told the little listener she must die,
    Without surprise, without dismay was heard;
    It filled with purer light her joyful eye.

    She only sought to soothe her weeping friends,
    Assuring them, that she was now to go
    Where, but to enter, were to make amends
    For more than all that man can leave below.

    She fell asleep! The gently fleeting breath
    Left her young spirit on a seraph's wing,
    Triumphant o'er the grave! The angel Death,
    To her, had neither terrors or a sting!

    She was a blessed creature God had sent
    To show what love and beauty dwell on high,
    Upon a kind, a holy errand bent;
    To win our love and lure us to the sky!

  40. Lucy

    by William Wordsworth

    She dwelt among the untrodden ways
    Beside the springs of Dove;
    A maid whom there were none to praise,
    And very few to love.

    A violet by a mossy stone
    Half-hidden from the eye!
    Fair as a star, when only one
    Is shining in the sky.

    She lived unknown, and few could know
    When Lucy ceased to be;
    But she is in her grave, and, oh,
    The difference to me!

  41. Death of Child - Sister

  42. Rose-Marie of the Angels

    by Adelaide Crapsey

    Little Sister Rose-Marie,
    Will thy feet as willing-light
    Run through Paradise, I wonder,
    As they run the blue skies under,
    Willing feet, so airy-light?

    Little Sister Rose-Marie,
    Will thy voice as bird-note clear
    Lift and ripple over Heaven
    As its mortal sound is given,
    Swift bird-voice, so young and clear?

    How God will be glad of thee,
    Little Sister Rose-Marie!

  43. We Met

    by Mary E. Tucker

    We met, and memory flew to joys and tears,
    Back through the vista dim, of long-past years.
    In my childhood's home I was a child again —
    A home to me, save only in the name.

    And yet I loved it, for there grew apace
    Four lovely children ripening into grace;
    If 'twas not home, they sisters were to me,
    And even now their fairy forms I see.

    Once by a tomb, alone I stood so drear —
    Dropped on a mother's grave a daughter's tear.
    A soft voice murmured, "She's my mother too;
    Sister, I'll put some flowers there for you."

    God bless the child, she was too fair for earth;
    Such flowers as she should have immortal birth;
    And so God took our darling home on high,
    Where she will bloom to never fade and die.

    No stranger was she in that home above,
    Where she was greeted with a mother's love;
    A wife stood waiting for a husband's child;
    A sister welcomed with a gladness mild.

    We met, and I to him brought back — not years,
    But months deep fraught, alas, with joys and tears,
    That child a maiden grown, stood by his side;
    His light, his life, his darling, promised bride.

    Again he stood by that sad bed of death,
    And felt the painful throbbing of her breath.
    "I am so weary that I fain would rest —
    Oh, darling, place my head upon your breast."

    We meet with hearts fast bound by mutual grief;
    We knew that sympathy could give relief;
    So when our stranger hands were joined together,
    A lonely sister found a loving brother.

  44. Gone

    by by Mary E. Tucker

    "She was beautiful in life
    And beautiful in death."

    Gone, with all her sparkling beauty,
    Gone, with innocence and youth;
    Gone, with loving ways and kindness,
    Gone, with happiness and truth.

    In the tomb they gently laid her —
    Even strangers dropped a tear;
    And one heart will feel the anguish
    Of her loss for many a year.

    Father, mother, loving sisters,
    Deeply mourn the lov'd and lost;
    Who can tell the crushing sorrow
    Of the heart who lov'd her most?

    Oft, I fancy, in the twilight,
    That I see her winning face;
    Dream to find, ah, sad awakening!
    I was gazing into space.

    Sister, this our earthly parting,
    Will not, cannot, be for aye;
    We will meet, ah, soon, my darling,
    Where there is eternal day!

  45. Death of Child - Brother

  46. Dora

    by Thomas Edward Brown.

    She knelt upon her brother's grave,
    My little girl of six years old—
    He used to be so good and brave,
    The sweetest lamb of all our fold;
    He used to shout, he used to sing,
    Of all our tribe the little king—
    And so unto the turf her ear she laid,

    To hark if still in that dark place he play'd.
    No sound! no sound!
    Death's silence was profound;
    And horror crept
    Into her aching heart, and Dora wept.
    If this is as it ought to be,
    My God, I leave it unto Thee.

  47. Lines on the Death of a Farmer's Wife

    by James McIntyre

    This good woman when in this life,
    She was kind mother and good wife,
    And managed her household with care,
    She and her husband happy pair.

    And her name it will long be praised
    By the large family she has raised,
    She laid up treasures in the skies,
    And now enjoys the Heavenly prize.

    She rose each morn with happy smile,
    And ardent all the day did toil,
    For work it to her had a charm,
    And busy was each hand and arm.

    And then I think of one, who in
    Her youthful beauty died,
    The fair, meek blossom that grew up
    And faded by my side.
    In the cold, moist earth we laid her,
    When the forest cast the leaf,
    And we wept that one so lovely
    Should have a life so brief;
    Yet not unmeet it was that one,
    Like that young friend of ours,
    So gentle and so beautiful,
    Should perish with the flowers.

    – William Cullen Bryant
    The Death of the Flowers
  48. Sister's Harp

    by Eliza and Sarah Wolcott

    When last those sweet notes I enjoy'd,
    O Sarah, thy hand gave the sound;
    But with angels thou now art employ'd,
    While thy harp seems to sigh at death's wound.

    How mournful's the strain that recalls
    Thy form so beloved to my mind;
    When the note of the wood-robbin falls,
    Deep sorrow and tears are combin'd.

    Though silent, thy harp seems to speak;
    Too transient these strings for her use;
    A harp of new strings, never weak,
    Thy sister holds forth to thy muse.

    The harp she has left thee behind,
    Is a pledge of the shortness of time;
    As her hand struck the last note sublime,
    May her sweet example be mine.

  49. You Never

    If Love alone could have saved you,
    You never would have died.

    - Anonymous
    You Never
    by Anonymous

    You never said I'm leaving.
    You never said goodbye.
    You were gone before I knew it,
    And only God knew why.
    A million times I needed you,
    A million times I cried.
    If Love alone could have saved you,
    You never would have died.
    In Life I loved you dearly,
    In death I love you still.
    In my heart you hold a place,
    That no one could ever fill.
    It broke my heart to lose you,
    But you didn't go alone.
    For part of me went with you,
    The day God took you home.

  50. Highland Mary

    by Robert Burns

    Ye banks, and braes, and streams around
    The castle o' Montgomery,
    Green be your woods, and fair your flowers,
    Your waters never drumlie!
    There Simmer first unfald her robes,
    And there the langest tarry:
    For there I took the last Fareweel
    O' my sweet Highland Mary.

    How sweetly bloom'd the gay, green birk,
    How rich the hawthorn's blossom;
    As underneath their fragrant shade,
    I clasp'd her to my bosom!
    The golden Hours, on angel wings,
    Flew o'er me and my Dearie;
    For dear to me as light and life
    Was my sweet Highland Mary.

    Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace,
    Our parting was fu' tender;
    And pledging aft to meet again,
    We tore oursels asunder:
    But Oh! fell Death's untimely frost,
    That nipt my Flower sae early!
    Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay,
    That wraps my Highland Mary!

    O pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
    I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!
    And clos'd for ay the sparkling glance,
    That dwalt on me sae kindly!
    And mouldering now in silent dust,
    That heart that lo'ed me dearly!
    But still within my bosom's core
    Shall live my Highland Mary.

  51. Picking Berries That Day

    by Annie Armstrong

    A midsummer morning, a gentle breeze
    Lazily moving the boughs of trees,
    A sweetbrier scented way;
    Tall grasses losing their gems of dew,
    With golden sunbeams shimmering through;
    A group of children where wild woods grew,
    Picking berries that day.

    We were four in all, and May, our pet,
    Whose years scarce numbered five summers yet,
    Laughing in happy play,
    Herself the fairest blossom that grew,
    Was gathering flowers of every hue,
    And decking herself, and Clarence, and Lou,
    Picking berries that day.

    Beneath the shade of a spreading oak,
    Clarence, the eldest, thoughtfully spoke,
    With eyes fixed far away,—
    "I wonder who"—and just then the fall
    Of a stone was heard from the mossy wall—
    "Will have the happiest life of all,
    Picking berries to-day?"

    "Why, me!" cried dear little May; with a start,
    I cried, as I pressed her to my heart,
    "Darling, I hope you may."
    How could I see that flowers would wave
    Over the mound of a little grave?
    As the baby voice that answer gave,
    Picking berries that day!

    Sweet baby eyes of azure blue.
    Ye are heavenly now! Your words were true,
    Dear little Angel May;
    Yours is indeed the happiest fate—
    To have is sweeter by far than to wait.
    More blessed are ye in your heavenly state
    Than when picking berries that day.

  52. Music, When Soft Voices Die

    by Percy Bysshe Shelley

    Music, when soft voices die,
    Vibrates in the memory—
    Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
    Live within the sense they quicken.

    Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
    Are heaped for the belovèd's bed;
    And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
    Love itself shall slumber on.

  53. The Reaper and the Flowers

    by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

    There is a Reaper, whose name is Death,
    And, with his sickle keen,
    He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,
    And the flowers that grow between.

    "Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;
    "Have naught but the bearded grain?
    Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,
    I will give them all back again."

    He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,
    He kissed their drooping leaves;
    It was for the Lord of Paradise
    He bound them in his sheaves.

    "My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"
    The Reaper said, and smiled;
    "Dear tokens of the earth are they,
    Where He was once a child.

    "They shall all bloom in fields of light,
    Transplanted by my care,
    And saints, upon their garments white,
    These sacred blossoms wear."

    And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
    The flowers she most did love;
    She knew she should find them all again
    In the fields of light above.

    Oh, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
    The Reaper came that day;
    'T was an angel visited the green earth,
    And took the flowers away.

  54. The Little Straw Hat

    by Appleton Oaksmith

    We all of us have our secret hoard
    Of things that we cherish and tenderly prize—
    Things that are neither of value or rare,
    Or for which any one else would care,
    Yet priceless to us—and we keep them stored
    Far from the sight of all other eyes.

    I have one treasure among my store,
    Which is dearer than all of the rest to me!
    You will smile mayhap with unbelief,
    Unless you have had the self-same grief;
    For the trifles of those who are no more,
    The loved and the lost grow precious to be.

    Would you know what it is, so dear to my eyes,
    And what so often will make them dim?
    For it brings to mind the dear little head
    That so long has slept with the loved ones dead,
    'Tis nothing—this thing that I so much prize—
    But a little straw hat with a ragged brim.

    I often unlock the closet door
    And bring it tenderly forth to the light;
    The ribbon is faded, 'tis torn and old,
    But no one could buy it with gold untold;
    And many a time on the chamber floor
    I have wept and kissed it half the night.

    I love it only as a mother can love
    The simple things of her little dead;
    I prize it as only a mother can prize
    The things so worthless in other eyes;
    For it symbols the crown that I know above
    Covers the little one's head.

    With streaming eyes I can often see
    The sweet little face in the sunlight glow,
    Looking forth from the ragged brim
    With the saucy glance so sweet in him,
    When he used to romp in the grass with me,
    In the summers so long ago.

    The little one had his holiday dress,
    With a hat that was very fine and grand;
    But it never to me was half so dear
    As the one I have cherished for many a year,
    For my lips the very spot can press
    Where 't was torn by the little hand.

    I have diamonds rare, and many a gem,
    With which sometimes my hair I trim,
    When forth in the world I am forced to go,
    To mix with the mockery and show:
    But there's none that I prize—not all of them—
    Like the little straw hat with the ragged brim.

    We are told that earth's treasures we must not hoard,
    Where moth doth corrupt and rust doth dim;
    Yet this is but a memento I love
    Of the priceless treasure I have above;
    It is not for it my tears are poured—
    This little straw hat with the ragged brim.

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