Poems (Larcom)

THIS is a haunted world. It hath no breezeBut is the echo of some voice beloved:Its pines have human tones; its billows wearThe color and the sparkle of dear eyes.Its flowers are sweet with touch of tender handsThat once clasped ours. All things are beautifulBecause of something lovelier than themselves,Which breathes within them, and will never die.—Haunted,—but not with any spectral gloom;Earth is suffused, inhabited by heaven.

These blossoms, gathered in familiar paths,With dear companions now passed out of sight,Shall not be laid upon their graves. They live,Since love is deathless. Pleasure now nor prideIs theirs in mortal wise, but hallowing thoughtsWill meet the offering, of so little worth,Wanting the benison death has made divine.And visible friends link hands with those unseen,Veiled in immortal light; their love is one.And, for love's sake, they will accept these waifs,Laid at their feet with a heart's gratitude,And sadness that it has no worthier gift.