‘Twas the old — road — through pain —
That unfrequented — one —
With many a turn — and thorn —
That stops — at Heaven —
This — was the Town — she passed —
There — where she — rested — last —
Then — stepped more fast —
The little tracks — close prest —
Then — not so swift —
Slow — slow — as feet did weary — grow —
Then — stopped — no other track!
Wait! Look! Her little Book —
The leaf — at love — turned back —
Her very Hat —
And this worn shoe just fits the track —
Herself — though — fled!
Another bed — a short one —
Women make — tonight —
In Chambers bright —
Too out of sight — though —
For our hoarse Good Night —
To touch her Head!
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Where I have lost, I softer tread —
I sow sweet flower from garden bed —
I pause above that vanished head
Whom I have lost, I pious guard
From accent harsh, or ruthless word —
Feeling as if their pillow heard,
When I have lost, you’ll know by this —
A Bonnet black — A dusk surplice —
A little tremor in my voice Like this!
Why, I have lost, the people know
Who dressed in flocks of purest snow
Went home a century ago
Sexton! My Master’s sleeping here.
Pray lead me to his bed!
I came to build the Bird’s nest,
And sow the Early seed —
That when the snow creeps slowly
From off his chamber door —
Daisies point the way there —
And the Troubadour.