GOOD-NIGHT, dear friend! I say good-night to thee Across the moonbeams, tremulous and white, Bridging all space between us, it may be. Lean low, sweet friend; it is the last good-night. For, lying low upon my couch, and still, The fever flush evanished from my face, I heard them whisper softly, "'T is His will; Angels will give her happier resting-place!" And so from sight of tears that fell like rain, And sounds of sobbing smothered close and low, I turned my white face to the window-pane, To say @3good-night@1 to thee before I go. Good-night! good-night! I do not fear the end, The conflict with the billows dark and high; And yet, if I could touch thy hand, my friend, I think it would be easier to die; If I could feel through all the quiet waves Of my deep hair thy tender breath athrill, I could go downward to the place of graves With eyes ashine and pale lips smiling still; Or it may be that, if through all the strife And pain of parting I should hear thy call, I would come singing back to sweet, sweet life, And know no mystery of death at all. It may not be. Good-night, dear friend, good-night! And when you see the violets again, And hear, through boughs with swollen buds awhite, The gentle falling of the April rain, Remember her whose young life held thy name With all things holy, in its outward flight, And turn sometimes from busy haunts of men To hear again her low good-night! good-night! |