[ H. B. S. ]

O FAIREST rose, whose fragrant, dying breath
Fills my hushed room! thou mind'st me, fading there,
Of one who kept as sweet a tryst with death
After a life as fair.

This friend — few peers she had — we could divine
Her presence by a secret, subtle sense
Of something pure about us, rare and fine,
And clean of all pretence.

And if she joyed or wept with us, anon
Our joy grew deeper; and anon our tears,
Sunned by her sweetness, rainbow hues took on,
And spanned our cloudy fears.

No spell occult, no secret marvellous,
She held; yet wrought, as by a hint divine,
The old time miracle, and turned for us
Life's water into wine.

O brief, bright life! — exhaling as it fled
Undying fragrance — leaving to our keep
Such sweetness that we cannot hold her dead,
For all these tears we weep.

Poor tears! poor words, our grief that cannot tell!
And yet that grief were scant which words could speak:
So rills outbabble rivers; it is well;
Let words for us be weak.

Fade, fairest rose! all the hushed air around
Is sweet because of thee; and thou, O friend,
Because of thee all earth is holy ground,
And shall be to the end.