Tread not the earth where lies her youthful form,
Grow violets, sweet violets, above that cherished
mound;
Bid zephyrs softly whisper in accents sweet and low,
Not dead, not lost, but only gone a little while before.
So, I, though bowed in anguish, yield her spirit to its
God,
And meekly clasp the smiting hand, and kiss the
chast'ning rod;
May I, when time is over, greet thee on the other
shore,
To live and love for aye and aye, where partings are
no more.
Mary Weston Fordham
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mrs-e-cohrs-brown/
