Consolatio

Henry Scott Holland: "I have only slipped away into the next room"

I suppose all of us hover between two ways of regarding death, which appear to be in hopeless contradiction with each other. First there is the familiar and instinctive recoil from it as embodying the supreme and irrevocable disaster...

But, then, there is another aspect altogether which death can wear for us. It is that which first comes to us, perhaps, as we look down upon the quiet face, so cold and white, of one who has been very near and dear to us. There it lies in possession of its own secret. It knows it all. So we seem to feel. And what the face says in its sweet silence to us as a last message from one whom we loved is:

"Death is nothing at all. It does not count. I have only slipped away into the next room. Nothing has happened. Everything remains exactly as it was. I am I, and you are you, and the old life that we lived so fondly together is untouched, unchanged. Whatever we were to each other, that we are still. Call me by the old familiar name. Speak of me in the easy way which you always used. Put no difference into your tone. Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow. Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes that we enjoyed together. Play, smile, think of me, pray for me. Let my name be ever the household word that it always was. Let it be spoken without an effort, without the ghost of a shadow upon it. Life means all that it ever meant. It is the same as it ever was. There is absolute and unbroken continuity. What is this death but a negligible accident? Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight? I am but waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near, just around the corner. All is well. Nothing is hurt; nothing is lost. One brief moment and all will be as it was before. How we shall laugh at the trouble of parting when we meet again!"

So the face speaks. Surely while we speak there is a smile flitting over it; a smile as of gentle fun at the trick played us by seeming death....

     --Canon Henry Scott Holland (1847-1918), from a sermon preached 15 May 1910, Saint Paul's, London.

Andreas Gryphius: Epitaph of Mariana Gryphius

Written in honor of his baby niece who was born and died one day old, as her parents fled a besieged town, during the Thirty Years War.

Born in flight, ringed with sword and fire,
smothered in smoke, my mother’s bitter hostage,
my father’s greatest fear, pulled into the light
as the angry flames swallowed my native land:
I looked at this world and left it quickly,
for in one day all the world’s anguish met me;
if you count the days, I vanished young--
very old, if you count what I knew of anguish.

         --Andreas Gryphius (1616-1664)

Grabschrift Marianae Gryphiae

Geboren in der Flucht, umringt mit Schwert und Brand,
Schier in dem Rauch erstickt, der Mutter herbes Pfand,
Des Vatern höchste Furcht, die an das Licht gedrungen,
Als die ergrimmte Glut mein Vaterland verschlungen:
Ich habe diese Welt beschaut und bald gesegnet,
Weil mir auf Einen Tag all' Angst der Welt begegnet;
Wo ihr die Tage zählt, so bin ich jung verschwunden,
Sehr alt, wofern ihr schätzt, was ich für Angst empfunden.

Amable O'Connor D'Arlach: the alabaster lamp: your memory

When the sun sets, when the moaning
breeze talks to me of dying without glory,
in the twilight of my pain I light
my inseparable lamp,
alabaster lamp: your memory.

When I follow my tragic and defeated
caravan of wandering griefs
in my crystal soul I take up
my inseparable lamp,
alabaster lamp: your memory.

When the singing leaves breathe out
their song, fleeting as was your story,
drops of mourning well up and embed themselves
in my beloved lamp,
lamp of alabaster: your memory.

Only my withered betrothed,
death the redeemer,
will one day extinguish
the light of that lamp,
alabaster lamp: your memory.

           --Amable O'Connor D'Arlach (1888-1973), Bolivia

Funeraria

Cuando se pone el sol, cuando gimiendo
me habla la brisa de morir sin gloria,
en la penumbra de mi pena enciendo
mi inseparable lámpara,
lámpara de alabastro: tu memoria.

Cuando sigo mi trágica y rendida
Caravana de duelos migratoria,
en mi alma de cristal llevo prendida
mi inseparable lámpara,
lámpara de alabastro: tu memoria

Cuando cantan las hojas que se arrastran
su aria fugaz, como lo fue tu historia,
brotan gotas de llanto que se engastan
en mi querida lámpara,
lámpara de alabastro: tu memoria

Solo la mustia prometida mía,
la muerte redentora,
ha de apagar un dia
la luz de aquella lámpara,
lámpara de alabastro: tu memoria

Eileen O'Connell: Lament for Art O'Leary

"Black-haired Eileen" O'Connell (ca 1743- ca 1800) wrote the most famous lament in Irish when her 26-year-old husband was shot by an Englishman, Abraham Morris, in 1773. He had been made an outlaw for refusing to sell his prizewinning horse for five pounds or less, as the Penal Laws required any Catholic to do. Art O'Leary was a member of the surviving Catholic gentry, who had been educated on the Continent and served as an officer in the Austrian army. The viciously anti-Catholic Penal Laws in force in Ireland during the 18th century made it impossible for 95% of the population to receive an education or have a career in their own country. Eileen was the aunt of Daniel O'Connell, "the Liberator."

Here is a partial translation of this fierce and heartbroken poem.

Caoineadh Airt UÍ Laoghaire

B'fhéidir gur aithris Eibhlín na dréachtaí seo os cionn an choirp i gCarraig an Ime.

Mo ghrá go daingean tu!
Lá dá bhfaca thu
ag ceann tí an mhargaidh,
thug mo shúil aire dhuit,
thug mo chroí taitnearnh duit,
d'éalaíos óm charaid leat
i bhfad ó bhaile leat.

Is domhsa nárbh aithreach:
Chuiris parlús á ghealadh dhom,
rúrnanna á mbreacadh dhom,
bácús á dheargadh dhom,
brící á gceapadh dhom,
rósta ar bhearaibh dom,
mairt á leagadh dhom;
codladh i gclúmh lachan dom
go dtíodh an t-eadartha
nó thairis dá dtaitneadh liorn.

Mo chara go daingean tu!
is cuimhin lem aigne
an lá breá earraigh úd,
gur bhreá thiodh hata dhuit
faoi bhanda óir tarraingthe;
claíomh cinn airgid,
lámh dheas chalma,
rompsáil bhagarthach -
fír-chritheagla
ar námhaid chealgach -
tú i gcóir chun falaracht
is each caol ceannann fút.
D'umhlaídís Sasanaigh
síos go talamh duit,
is ní ar mhaithe leat
ach le haon-chorp eagla,
cé gur leo a cailleadh tu,
a mhuirnín mh'anama....

Mo chara thu go daingean!
is nuair thiocfaidh chúgham abhaile
Conchúr beag an cheana
is Fear Ó Laoghaire, an leanbh,
fiafróid díom go tapaidh
cár fhágas féin a n-athair.
'Neosad dóibh faoi mhairg
gur fhágas i gCill na Martar.
Glaofaid siad ar a n-athair,
is ní bheidh sé acu le freagairt....

Mo chara thu go daingean!
is níor chreideas riamh dod mharbh
gur tháinig chúgham do chapall
is a srianta léi go talamh,
is fuil do chroí ar a leacain
siar go t'iallait ghreanta
mar a mbítheá id shuí 's id sheasarnh.
Thugas léim go tairsigh,
an dara léim go geata,
an triú léim ar do chapall.

Do bhuaileas go luath mo bhasa
is do bhaineas as na reathaibh
chomh maith is bhí séagam,
go bhfuaras romham tu marbh
Cois toirín ísil aitinn,
gan Pápa gan easpag,
gan cléireach gan sagart
do léifeadh ort an tsailm,
ach seanbhean chríonna chaite
do leath ort binn dá fallaing --
do chuid fola leat 'na sraithibh;
is níor fhanas le hí ghlanadh
ach í ól suas lem basaibh.

Mo ghrá thu go daingean!
is érigh suas id sheasamh
is tar liom féin abhaile,
go gcuirfeam mairt á leagadh,
go nglaofam ar chóisir fhairsing,
go mbeidh againn ceol á spreagadh,
go gcóireod duitse leaba
faoi bhairlíní geala,
faoi chuilteanna breátha breaca,
a bhainfidh asat alias
in ionad an fhuachta a ghlacais.

 

II

Nuair a shroich deirfiúr Airt (ó Chorcaigh) teach an tórraimh in aice Mhaigh Chromtha,
fuair sí, de réir an tseanchais, Eibhlín roimpi sa leaba. Seo roinnt den bhriatharchath a bhí eatarthu.

Deirfiúr Airt:

Mo chara is mo stór tú
is mó bean chumtha chórach
ó Chorcaigh na. seolta
go Droichead na Tóime,

do tabharfadh macha mór bó dhuit
agus dorn buí-óir duit,
ná raghadh a chodladh 'na seomra
oíche do thórraimh.

Eibhlín Dhubh:

Mo chara is m' uan tú!
is ná creid sin uathu,
ná an cogar a fuarais,
ná an scéal fir fuatha,
gur a chodladh a chuas-sa.
Níor throm suan dom:
ach bhí do linbh ró-bhuartha,
's do theastaigh sé uathu
iad a chur chun suaimhnis.

A dhaoine na n-ae istigh,
'bhfuil aon bhean in Éirinn,
ó luí na gréine,
a shínfeadh a taobh leis,
do bhéarfadh trí lao dho,
ná raghadh le craobhacha
i ndiaidh Airt Uí Laoghaire
atá anso traochta
ó mhaidin inné agam?...

M'fhada-chreach léan-ghoirt
ná rabhas-sa taobh leat
nuair lámhadh an piléar leat,
go ngeobhainn é im thaobh dheas
nó i mbinn mo léine,
is go léigfinn cead slé' leat
a mharcaigh na ré-ghlac

Deirfiúr Airt:

Mo chreach ghéarchúiseach
ná rabhas ar do chúlaibh
nuair lámhadh an púdar,
go ngeobhainn é im chom dheas
nó i mbinn mo ghúna,
is go léigfinn cead siúil leat
a mharcaigh na súl nglas,
ós tú b'fhearr léigean chucu.

III

Cuireann Eibhlín a mórtas as a fear céile in iúl go lánphoiblí sna
dréachtaí seo. B'fhéidir gur aithris si an méid seo tar éis don chorp
a bheith rétithe le haghaidh an adhlactha.

Eibhlín Dhubh:

Mo chara thu is mo, shearc-mhaoin!
Is gránna an cháir a chur ar ghaiscíoch
comhra agus caipín,
ar mharcach an dea-chroí
a bhiodh ag iascaireacht ar ghlaisíbh
agus ag ól ar hallaíbh
i bhfarradh mná na ngeal-chíoch.
Mo mhíle mearaí
mar a chailleas do thaithí.

Greadadh chúghat is díth
á Mhorris ghránna an fhill!
á bhain díom fear mo thí,
athair mo, leanbh gan aois:
dís acu ag siúl an tí,
's an tríú duine acu istigh im chlí,
agus is dócha ná cuirfead diom.

Mo chara thu is mo thaitneamh!
Nuair ghabhais amach an geata
d'fhillis ar ais go tapaidh,
do phógais do dhís leanbh,
do phógais mise ar bharra baise.
Dúraís, 'A Eibhlín, éirigh id sheasamh
agus cuir do ghnó chun taisce
go luaimneach is go tapaidh.
Táimse ag fágáil an bhaile,
is ní móide go deo go gcasfainn.'
Níor dheineas dá chaint ach magadh,
mar bhíodh á rá liom go minic cheana.

Mo chara thu is mo chuid!
A mharcaigh an chlaímh ghil,
éirigh suas anois,
cuir ort do chulaith
éadaigh uasail ghlain,
cuir ort do bhéabhar dubh,
tarraing do lámhainní umat.
Siúd í in airde t'fbuip;
sin i do láir amuigh.
Buail-se an bóthar caol úd soir
mar a maolóidh romhat na toir,
mar a gcaolóidh romhat an sruth,
mar a n-umhlóidh romhat mná is fir,
má tá a mbéasa féin acu -
's is baolach liomsa ná fuil anois....

Mo ghrá thu is mo chumann!
's ní hé a bhfuair bás dem chine,
ni bás mo thriúr clainne;
ná Dónall Mór Ó Conaill,
ná Conall a bháigh an tuile,
ná bean na sé mblian 's fiche
do chuaigh anonn thar uisce
'déanamh cairdeasaí le rithe -
ní hiad go lér atá agam dá ngairm,
ach Art a bhaint aréir dá bhonnaibh
ar inse Charraig an Ime!
marcach na lárach doinne
atá agam féin anso go singil --
gan éinne beo 'na ghoire
ach mná beaga dubha an mhuilinn,
is mar bharr ar mo mhíle tubaist
gan a súiile féin ag sileadh.

Mo chara is mo lao thu!
A Airt Uí Laoghaire
Mhic Conchúir, Mhic Céadaigh,
Mhic Laoisigh Uí Laoghaire,
aniar ón nGaortha
is anoir ón gCaolchnoc,
mar a bhfásaid caora
is cnó bui ar ghéagaibh
is úlla 'na slaodaibh
na n-am féinig.
Cárbh ionadh le héinne
dá lasadh Uíbh Laoghaire
agus Béal Atha an Ghaorthaigh
is an Uigdn naofa
i ndiaidh mharcaigh na ré-ghlac
a níodh an fiach a thraochadh
ón nGreanaigh ar saothar
nuair stadaidís caol-choin!
Is a mharcaigh na gclaon-rosc  --
nó cad d'imigh aréir ort?
Óir do shíleas féinig
ni maródh an saol tu
nuair cheannaíos duit éide.

IV

Déanann deirfiúr Airt a caoineadh féin anseo. Nuair a luann sí, na mná óga
a bhí mór le Art, spriúchann Eibhlín.

Deirfiúr Airt:

Mo ghrá is mo rún tu!
's mo ghra mo cholúr geal!
Cé ná tánag-sa chúghat-sa
is nár thugas mo thrúip liom,
nior chúis náire siúd liom
mar bhíodar i gcúngrach
i seomraí dúnta
is i gcomhraí cúnga,
is i gcodladh gan mhúscailt.

Mura mbeadh an bholgach
is an bás dorcha
is an fiabhras spotaitheach,
bheadh an marc-shlua borb san
is a srianta á gcroitheadh acu
ag déanamh fothraim
ag teacht dod shochraid
a Airt an bhrollaigh ghil....

Mo chara is mo lao thu!
Is aisling tri néallaibh
do deineadh aréir dom
i gCorcaigh go déanach
ar leaba im aonar:
gur thit ár gcúirt aolda,
cur chríon an Gaortha,
nár fhan friotal id chaol-choin
ná binneas ag éanaibh,
nuair fuaradh tu traochta
ar lár an tslé' arnuigh,
gan sagart, gan cléireach,
ach seanbhean aosta
do leath binn dá bréid ort
nuair fuadh den chré thu,
a Airt Uí Laoghaire,
is do chuid fola 'na slaodaibh
i mbrollach do léine.

Mo ghrá is mo rún tu!
's is breá thiodh súd duit,
stoca chúig dhual duit,
buatais go glúin ort,
Caroilin cúinneach,
is fuip go lúifar
ar ghillín shúgach -
is mó ainnir mhodhúil mhúinte
bhíodh ag féachaint sa chúl ort.

Eibhlín Dhubh:

Mo ghrá go daingean tu!
's nuair théitheá sna cathracha
daora, daingeana,
biodh mná na gceannaithe
ag umhlú go talamh duit,
óir do thuigidís 'na n-aigne
gur bhreá an leath leaba tu,
nó an bhéalóg chapaill tu,
nó an t-athair leanbh tu.

Tá fhios ag losa Criost
ná beidh caidhp ar bhaitheas mo chinn,
ná léine chnis lem thaoibh,
ná bróg ar thrácht mo bhoinn,
ná trioscán ar fuaid mo thí,
ná srian leis an láir ndoinn,
ná caithfidh mé le dlí,
's go raghad anonn thar toinn
ag comhrá leis an rá,
's mura gcuirfidh ionam aon tsuim
go dtiocfad ar ais arís
go bodach na fola duibhe
a bhain diom féin mo mhaoin.

V

De bharr constaicí dlí, dealraionn sé nár cuireadh Art i reilig a shinsear. Cuireadh an corp go sealadach;
agus cúpla mí ina dhiaidh sin, ní foldáir, aistríodh i go mainistir Chill Cré, Co. Chorcaí. B'fhéidir gur
chuir Eibhlín na dréachtaí seo a leanas lena, caoineadh ar ócáid an dara adhlacadh.

Eibhlín Dhubh:

Mó ghrá thu agus mo rún!
Tá do stácaí ar a mbonn,
tá do bha buí á gcrú;
is ar mo chroí atá do chumha
ná leigheasfadh Cúige Mumhan
ná Gaibhne Oileáin na bhFionn.
Go dtiocfaidh Art Ó Laoghaire chúgham
ní scaipfidh ar mo chumha
atá i lár mo chroí á bhrú,
dúnta suas go dlúth
mar a bheadh glas a bheadh ar thrúnc
's go raghadh an eochair amú.

A mhná so amach ag gol
stadaidh ar bhur gcois
go nglaofaidh Art Mhac Conchúir deoch,
agus tuilleadh thar cheann na mbocht,
sula dtéann isteach don scoil --
ní ag foghlaim léinn ná port,
ach ag iompar cré agus cloch.

--Eibhlín Dhubh Ní Chonaill (ca 1743-1800)

 

 

 

François de Malherbe: Consolation for Mr du Perier

Your sorrow, du Périer, will be eternal, then?
and the sad conversations
that bring your fatherly love to your mind
will always add to it ?

The unhappiness of your daughter gone down to the grave
through a common death,
is it some maze where your lost reason
cannot find its way?

I know that her childhood was full of charms,
and I have not undertaken,
furious friend, to relieve your pain
with scorn.

But she was of this world, where the most beautiful things
have the worst fate;
and, a rose, she lived as roses live,
the space of a morning.

And then, suppose that according to your prayer,
she could have obtained the favor
of finishing her life with white hair,
what would have happened?

Do you think that, arriving older in the celestial house,
she would have a warmer welcome?
Or that she would feel less the dust of death
and the worms of the coffin?

No, no, my du Périer, as soon as Fate
takes the soul from the body,
age vanishes on the far side of the ship
and does not follow the dead.

...

For myself, a lightning bolt like that
has already struck me twice,
and twice Reason has helped me so well
to resolve it that I no longer need it.

Not that it is not a grief to me that the earth holds
what was so dear to me;
but in an accident with no remedy,
it is no use looking for one.

Death has rigors like nothing else;
one can try pleading with it,
but the cruel one plugs its ears
and lets us weep.

The poor man in his cabin covered with thatch
is subject to Death’s laws;
and the guard who watches the palace gates
cannot protect our kings.

To murmur against Death and lose patience
is the wrong thing to do;
To want what God wants is the only wisdom
that can give us repose.

   --François de Malherbe (1555-1628)

 

Consolation à Monsieur du Périer

Ta douleur, du Périer, sera donc éternelle,
Et les tristes discours
Que te met en l'esprit l'amitié paternelle
L'augmenteront toujours !

Le malheur de ta fille au tombeau descendue
Par un commun trépas,
Est-ce quelque dédale où ta raison perdue
Ne se retrouve pas ?

Je sais de quels appas son enfance était pleine,
Et n'ai pas entrepris,
Injurieux ami, de soulager ta peine
avecque son mépris.

Mais elle était du monde ,où les plus belles choses
Ont le pire destin,
Et rose elle a vécu ce que vivent les roses,
L'espace d'un matin.

Puis quand ainsi serait ,que selon ta prière,
Elle aurait obtenu
D'avoir en cheveux blancs terminé sa carrière,
Qu'en fut-il advenu ?

Penses-tu que, plus vieille, en la maison céleste
Elle eut plus d'accueil ?
Ou qu'elle eut moins senti la poussière funeste
Et les vers du cercueil ?

Non ,non, mon Du Périer, aussitot que la Parque
Ote l'ame du corps,
L'age s'évanouit au-deçà de la barque ,
Et ne suit point les morts.

Tithon n'a plus les ans qui le firent cigale :
Et Pluton aujourd'hui,
Sans égard du passé les mérites égale
D'Archémore et de lui.

Ne te lasse donc plus d'inutiles complaintes :
Mais songe à l'avenir,
Aime une ombre comme ombre, et de cendres éteintes,
Eteins le souvenir.

C'est bien je le confesse , une juste coutume,
Que le coeur affligé
Par le canal des yeux vidant son amertume
Cherche d'être allégé.

Même quand il advient que la tombe sépare
Ce que Nature a joint,
Celui qui ne s'émeut pas à l'âme d'un Barbare,
Ou n'en a du tout point.

Mais d'être inconsolable ,et dedans sa mémoire
Enfermer un ennui,
N'est-ce pas se haïr pour acquérir la gloire
de bien aimer autrui ?

Priam, qui vit ses fils abattus par Achille,
Dénué de support
Et hors de tout espoir du salut de sa ville,
Reçut du réconfort.

François, quand la Castille, inégale à ses armes,
Lui vola son Dauphin,
Sembla d’un si grand coup devoir jeter des larmes
Qui n’eussent point de fin.

Il les sécha pourtant, et comme un autre Alcide
Contre fortune instruit,
Fit qu’à ses ennemis d’un acte si perfide
La honte fut le fruit.

Leur camp, qui la Durance avait presque tarie
De bataillons épais,
Entendant sa constance, eut peur de sa furie
Et demanda la paix.

De moi, déjà deux fois d’une pareille foudre
Je me suis vu perclus,
Et deux fois la raison m’a si bien fait résoudre
Qu’il ne m’en souvient plus.

Non qu’il ne me soit grief que la terre possède
Ce qui me fut si cher;
Mais en un accident qui n’a point de remède,
Il n’en faut point chercher.

Jacques Delille: Imagination retraces the past, remakes everything that was

...
Imagination, fertile enchantress,
who does more than save and remember,
who retraces the past, goes ahead of the future,
remakes everything that was and should be,
tells one to exist, the other to be reborn.

   --  Jacques Delille (1738-1813)

...
L’imagination, féconde enchanteresse,
Qui fait mieux que garder et que se souvenir,
Retrace le passé, devance l’avenir,
Refait tout ce qui fut, fait tout ce qui doit être
Dit à l’un d’exister, à l’autre de renaître.

Victor Hugo: Written beneath a crucifix

You who weep, come to this God, for he weeps.
You who suffer, come to him, for he cures.
You who tremble, come to him, for he smiles.
You who pass, come to him, for he remains.

  [written in 1847 after the death of his beloved daughter in 1843]

                         --Victor Hugo (1802-1885)                  
                                                                        

Ecrit au bas d’un crucifix

Vous qui pleurez, venez à ce Dieu, car il pleure.
Vous qui souffrez, venez à lui, car il guérit.
Vous qui tremblez, venez à lui, car il sourit.
Vous qui passez, venez à lui, car il demeure.

Victor Hugo: Tomorrow, as soon as it is dawn

Tomorrow, starting at dawn, at the hour when the land turns white,
I will leave. You see, I know you are waiting for me.
I will go through the forest, I will go past the mountain,
I cannot stay far from you any longer.

I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts,
seeing nothing else, hearing no sound,
alone, unknown, back bent, hands crossed,
sad, and day for me will be like night.

I will not look at the gold of the evening falling,
nor at the sails in the distance going down to Harfleur.
And when I arrive, I will put on your grave
a sprig of green holly and of heather in bloom.

    --Victor Hugo  (1802-1885)

Hugo's beloved oldest daughter drowned in a boat accident in the Seine at age 19. Hugo never got over her death. This is one of the most famous poems in the French language.

Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.

Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.

Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.

Ben Jonson: The pleasures of Heaven

There all the happy souls that ever were,
shall meet with gladness in one theatre;
and each shall know there one another’s face,
by beatific virtue of the place.
There shall the brother with the sister walk,
and sons and daughters with their parents talk;
but all of God: they still shall have to say,
but make him all in all their theme that day:
that happy day that never shall see night!
.......
    --Ben Jonson (1572-1637)

Dinah Maria Mulock Craik: Buried today

February 23, 1858

Buried today.
     When the soft green buds are bursting out,
    and up on the south-wind comes a shout
of village boys and girls at play
in the mild spring evening gray.

Taken away
     sturdy of heart and stout of limb,
     from eyes that drew half their light from him,
and put low, low underneath the clay,
in his spring, -- on this spring day.

Passes away,
     all the pride of boy-life begun,
     all the hope of life yet to run;
who dares to question when One saith “Nay.”
Murmur not, -- only pray.

Enters today
     another body in churchyard sod,
    another soul on the life in God.
His Christ was buried—and lives always:
trust Him, and go your way.

   --Dinah Maria Mulock (1826-1887)