Louisa May Alcott

By Louise Chandler Moulton (1835–1908)

(Died March 6, 1888—In Memoriam)

AS the wind at play with a spark

Of fire that glows through the night,

As the speed of the soaring lark

That wings to the sky his flight,

So swiftly thy soul has sped

On its upward, wonderful way,

Like the lark when the dawn is red,

In search of the shining day.

Thou art not with the frozen dead

Whom earth in the earth we lay,

While the bearers softly tread,

And the mourners kneel and pray;

From thy semblance, dumb and stark

The soul has taken its flight—

Out of the finite dark,

Into the Infinite Light.