Thomas S. Collyer

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.