What shall we do now, Mary being dead, Or say or write that shall express the half? What can we do but pillow that fair head, And let the Spring-time write her epitaph!— As it will soon, in snowdrop, violet, Wind-flower and columbine and maiden’s tear; Each letter of that pretty alphabet, That spells in flowers the pageant of the year. She was a maiden for a man to love; She was a woman for a husband’s life; One that has learned to value, far above The name of love, the sacred name of wife. Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep, Had all there is of life, except gray hairs,— Hope, love, trust, passion, and devotion deep; And that mysterious tie a mother bears. She hath fulfilled her promise and hath passed; Set her down gently at the iron door! Eyes look on that loved image for the last: Now cover it in earth,—her earth no more.
Mary Booth
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