She did not go, as others do,
With backward look and beckoning;
With no farewell for anything
She passed the open doorway through.
The little things she left behind
Lie where they fell from hands content—
Fame a forgotten incident
And life a season out of mind.
The spring will find her footstep gone,
But spring is kind to vanished things,
Camas and buttercups she brings
With green that tears have brightened on.
And we, who walked with her last year
While April in the lilacs stirred,
Will turn with sudden look or word—
Forgetting that she is not here.