STILL swings the scarlet pentstemon
Like threaded rubies on its stem,
In the hid spot she loved so well;
Still bloom wild roses brave and fair,
And like a bubble borne in air
Floats the shy Mariposa’s bell.
Like torches lit for carnival,
The fiery lilies, straight and tall,
Burn where the deepest shadow is;
Still dance the columbines cliff-hung,
And like a broidered veil outflung
The mazy-blossomed clematis.
Her garden! All is silent now,
Save bell-note from some wandering cow,
Or rippling lark-song far away,
Or whisper from the wind-stirred leaves,
Or mourning dove which grieves and grieves,
And “Lost! lost! lost!” still seems to say.
Where is the genius of the place,—
The happy voice, the happy face,
The feet whose light, unerring tread
Needed no guide in wildwood ways,
But trod the rough and tangled maze
By natural instinct taught and led?
Upon the wind-blown mountain-spur
Chosen and loved as best by her,
Watched over by near sun and star,
Encompassed by wide skies, she sleeps,
And not one jarring murmur creeps
Up from the plain her rest to mar.
Sleep on, dear heart! we would not break
Thy slumber for our sorrow’s sake:
The cup of life, with all its zest,
Thy ardent nature quaffed at full;
Now, in the twilight long and cool,
Take thou God’s final gift of rest.
And still below the grape-vine swings;
The Mariposa’s fragile wings
Flutter, red lilies light their flame,
Larks float, the dove still plains and grieves;
But while one heart that loved thee lives,
Still shall thy garden bear thy name.