To a Young Girl Dying

This is Palm Sunday: mindful of the day, I bring palm branches, found upon my way: But these will wither; thine shall never die,— The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky! Dear little saint, though but a child in years, Older in wisdom than my gray compeers! We doubt and tremble,—we, with bated breath, Talk of this mystery of life and death: Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe! Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home, Gentle white palmer, never more to roam! Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go’st, Thy benediction,—for my love thou know’st! We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine: Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine!

Collection:

English

Thomas William Parsons

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