Dead and forgot!
How sad the lot
When wintry tempests blow
To lie all cold
'Neath the churchyard mould,
And in a year or so
To have our very name unsaid,
Unless it chance to fall
From careless lips that say, "She's dead,"—
She's dead, and that is all!
But sadder still
That one should fill
The place we thought our own:
That a form more light,
And an eye more bright
Should guard our dear hearth-stone;
That where we strayed another's feet
At morn and eve should roam,
And another's voice—perchance more sweet—
Make music in our home!
That where we locked
Our hands and talked
Amid our chosen flowers,
The lips we pressed
Should be caressed
By other lips than ours,—
That other eyes should watch for him,
And other arms embrace,
Until our image growing dim
Yield to another's face.
And this is love!
O injured Dove!
Thy wings have many a stain:
But pure and white
In the Land of Light
They shall be spread again;
The deep, true love our spirits crave
Earth has never supplied;
Nor till we leave the dreary grave
Shall we be satisfied.