Classic Poem

As if the outgrowth of the virgin's form,
Sweet, pure white flowers upon her grave are blowing,
And overcasting all they know of her,
Thither a woman and a child are going.

“Is she in there?” repeats the little voice.
“Her dust, dear child; the spirit is in Heaven.”
But as the old, true answer left the lips,
The child was kneeling, as at morn and even.

And lo! she kissed the flowers with tender mouth,
As though she feared to wake a living sleeper,
Looked upward, bent, and kissed them all again,
Now with a fervor holier and deeper.

She used to press that maiden's perfect cheek
With kisses made of childish love and wonder,
And now these petals seem to hold a life
From which her own cannot be drawn asunder.

Oh! would that every heart which aches with loss,
Had a sweet faith, that like this dear child kneeling,
Might kiss the pale, pure hopes that grow from grief,
Turning, like them, toward the Place of Healing.