SHE did not go, as others do, With backward look and beckoning; With no farewell for anything She passed the open doorway through. The little things she left behind Lie where they fell from hands content— Fame a forgotten incident And life a season out of mind. The spring will find her footstep gone, But spring is kind to vanished things, Camas and buttercups she brings With green that tears have brightened on. And we, who walked with her last year While April in the lilacs stirred, Will turn with sudden look or word— Forgetting that she is not here. |