She whispered low, "I cannot understand!" And then she died. How strange that she, whose years Were only seventeen, untouched by tears, Just meeting Life with eager, outstretched hand, Should go, and leave behind that weary band Of pilgrims, worn with struggle, pain, and fears, Who've pondered long on Death, and gazed like seers Out to the Great Unknown, -- All-Knowledge Land! Who shall say why? Perchance her pure young soul Was like some crystal stream, swift flowing down From snows eternal to a rocky bowl, Only to be drawn back to summit's crown E'er dust or dross of world hath marred its whole. God said, "Have faith! I take back but mine own." |