In Memory—Eliza Sproat Turner

How should we think of her as deadWhose words to many are as daily bread?How should we deem her goneWhose help is not, and cannot be, withdrawn?We do not mourn the orb as setWhose shining beams are all about us yet!

Ah, no! They live indeed—the deadBy whose example we are upward led;Nor was her service vainWho gave herself—again and yet again—And when her spirit was most sad,Healed her deep hurt by making others glad.

She lived to bless: her generous mindDespaired not of the humblest of her kindFor in her heart was bornLove for the poor, unfriended, and forlorn,Which, after love's perfected way,Judged not itself of greater worth than they.

She lived to bless: love made her strongTo widen good, to limit hate and wrong,To ease the path of woe;And choosing in the Christ-like way to go,The future held for her no fear,Who, self-forgetting, made her heaven—here!