Here in her little room all still and lone
The things that made her life are greeting me.
It seems as though her body as it went
Had left a spirit footprint, mindfully.
'Twould seem as in the mirror-moon were shown
The shadowy glimpse of what she used to be;--
And sing more sad her bird its caged lament,--
And through the room her absence whisper free--
Her gilt-edged book of prayers is lying there
Upon the table; and it says: "The care
Is small of worldlings, -- Upon God, thine eye!"
I raise my glance, and in my grief I moan:--
Oh, had I but, that final hour, known
The anguished sweetness of her last goodbye!