It was not strange she left without farewell; That was a word she never loved to say. Her gentle lips, whatever fate befell, Parted more readily for glad “Good-day.”
Heart of the home wherein her presence made Perpetual sunshine for each shady place, Centre of kindly thought, of kindly aid, And hospitality’s long practised grace.
Dear friend, who did not tarry for good-byes But swiftly trod the heavenward path of air, God keep thee in His safe, sure Paradise, And let us, following, find thy welcome there.
SO far! Is it so far then, that dear country Which homesick hearts expectant claim as theirs, Chiding the years as slow which patient come and go, And make no answer to reproach or prayers?
Is it so far then? For at times it seemeth More dear, familiar, close than aught beside, Bounding our mortal day, lying beside our way, Only the little veil of flesh to hide.
Is it so far? When those who have gone thither Seem so near always, always near and sure, Loving and aiding still, sharing our joy and ill, Lifting our burdens, helping to endure.
Is it so far then? I cannot believe it. When the veil parts and rends and lets us through, The first surprise of bliss, I think, will be in this, That the far off was nearer than we knew;
That what we mourned as lost was close beside us, Touching us every day in every spot, While, blinded with dull tears, groping through faithless years, We were upheld and led and knew it not.
Let us not call it far—the heavenly country; It bounds our little space like viewless air, And while we sorrowing say that it is far away We touch it, all unknowing, everywhere.
WORK is the fresh air of the soul! It clears the heavy brain, Quickens the pulses of the mind, Warms thought to action, and the blind And sluggish will sunk into ease Of ineffective lethargies It stirs to life again.
Grief is the cold air of the soul! It chills and blights the flowers, In urgent gusts it sways and smites, Freezing the source of all delights; But roots grow strong by dint of storm, And, when the spring awakes, they form The growth of happier hours.
Love is the warm air of the soul! It reacheth far and wide, Clasping all life with healing touch, Wooing the little into much, Making brown branch and buried root To bud and blossom and bear fruit Like the sweet summer-tide.