A year ago, in this dear month of May,
I heard a voice borne o'er the waters say:
"Weep, for her gentle soul has passed away."
The words had scarcely ceased, when on her face
I gazed, or so it seemed, but saw no trace
Of aught save life, and loveliness, and grace.
In an unconscious attitude of rest
She lay, with hands cross-folded on her breast—
Looking, indeed, like one supremely blest.
There was no change, save only that a light,
Left by death's kiss upon her brow so white,
Glimmered about her face, and made it bright.
"What is this mystery of death?" I said:
"Who are the living? Are not they the dead
Who weep, in bonds of flesh, the spirit fled?"
An answer, but from whence I could not tell,
Upon my ear like softest music fell:
All is of God. He doeth, all things well!"
Then looking up towards the far blue skies,
Her whom we mourn I saw, in angel guise,
Smiling beside the gates of Paradise.