REMEMBERING

by: Louise Morgan Sill

HEN Spring came down the lane that year,

That sorrowing year,

I saw her in a sombre mist--

She whom the sun had newly kissed--

As through a cloudy tear.

 

I sighed and bent my drooping head,

My weary head,

And must it be like this? I cried,

Oh, better sooner to have died

Than be, though living, dead!

 

But as I looked upon her face,

Her heaven-born face,

And saw the blossoms' snowy blur

Against the roseate glow of her,

I yielded to that grace--

 

And I forgot the wound of pain,

Of cruel pain,

Remembering, come joy or woe,

That winter dies, and blossoms blow,

And Peace comes back again.

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