Ida Straus

WE wonder at, we praise your life,

For crowning love with name of wife,

Whose love was young in sunset-time,

As in the blush of morning’s prime.

We cry: “Oh, what a miracle she!”

And thus confess how small are we!

Can rose be otherwise than rose?

Can light be less than light? Can those

Who love be less than love? So you

To your angel spirit were but true.

They dreamt she died? O, can it be,

Since love alone’s immortality,

And love doth live through such as she?

You live in death. ’Tis we are dead,

In life. For you to love were wed.

Your love was gold and ours dross.

The sea alone can sigh our loss

Of you. The morning stars alone

Can sing your fame to years unflown.

For all we say but tells anew

How small are we; how great are you!