Beneath the shadows of this tree I laid the forms of children three: George, Agnes, Edith were the names We knew them by on earth; but now, In splendor that time's twilight shames, A crown on each unsullied brow, What names they bear I do not know. The first to go was George; his life Was ten sweet months. Then came our strife With death; and then it seemed as though This dreary, empty world would be A cavern for the ebb and flow Of waters of a sunless sea, Until the end for mine and me. Two summer days was Agnes' stay; Then, whence she came, she stole away. The light of heaven was in her eyes; She seemed to hear the songs of heaven, And feel the breath of Paradise, Like Hesper on the brow of even, And, ah, our hearts again were riven. Then Edith, with the eyes serene: The angels claimed her at fifteen. @3Their@1 faces I cannot recall; Compassionating my distress, @3She@1 watches from my study wall, And, soothing me with mute caress, Increases still in loveliness. Dear Edith, this soft summer day Thy daisies on thy grave I lay, And find here, by the modest stone, Whereto it shyly seems to cling, A clover-blossom, all alone— A shrinking, slender, snowy thing Like thee—June's fragrant offering. Three little graves. The children three My loving Father lent to me, And claimed again with right divine And equal love, are lying here Beneath the shadows of this pine; Remote from change, or pain, or fear, Or footfalls of the passing year. Yet are ye here my children three? Beneath the shadows of this tree Do ye sojourn with darkened eyes? Nay, ye abide in splendor bright, In ample mansions of the skies. Beyond our darksome day and night, Yours are eternal years of light. And here I stand, and muse, and wait, No longer now importunate; No more insisting that I know How Providence should answer prayer; But as God wills I want it @3so.@1 My treasures are in heaven, and where The treasure is the heart is there. |