Grace.
By Jean Blewett
(JUNE 13, 1899.)
So still you sleep upon your bed,
So motionless and slender,
It cannot be that you are dead,
My maiden gay and tender!
You were no creature pale and meek
That death should hasten after,
The dimples played within your cheek,
Your lips were made for laughter.
To you the great world was a place
That care might never stay in,
A playground built by God's good grace
For glad young folks to play in.
You made your footpath by life's flowers,
O happy, care-free maiden!
The sky was full of shine and showers,
The wind was perfume laden.
Your dimpled hands are folded now
Upon your snowy bosom,
The dark hair nestles on your brow -
O tender, broken blossom!
The white lids hide your eyes so clear,
So mirthful, so beguiling,
But as my tears fall on you, dear,
Your lips seem softly smiling.
And do you feel that it is home,
The city far above us?
And were they glad to have you come?
And will you cease to love us?
Methinks when you stand all in white
To learn each sweet new duty,
Some eye will note, with keen delight,
Your radiance and beauty.
And when your laughter softly rings
Out where God's streets do glisten,
The angels fair will fold their wings
And still their song to listen.