“My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,”
  The Reaper said, and smiled;
“Dear tokens of the earth are they,
  Where he was once a child.

“They shall all bloom in fields of light,
  Transplanted by my care,
And saints, upon their garments white,
  These sacred blossoms wear.”

And the mother gave, in tears and pain,
  The flowers she most did love;
She knew she should find them all again
  In the fields of light above.

O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,
  The Reaper came that day;
’Twas an angel visited the green earth,
  And took the flowers away.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

“ONLY A YEAR.”

One year ago,—­a ringing voice,
    A clear blue eye,
And clustering curls of sunny hair,
    Too fair to die.

Only a year,—­no voice, no smile,
    No glance of eye,
No clustering curls of golden hair,
    Fair but to die!

One year ago,—­what loves, what schemes
    Far into life! 
What joyous hopes, what high resolves,
    What generous strife!

The silent picture on the wall,
    The burial-stone,
Of all that beauty, life, and joy,
    Remain alone!

One year,—­one year,—­one little year,
    And so much gone! 
And yet the even flow of life
    Moves calmly on.

The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,
    Above that head;
No sorrowing tint of leaf or spray
    Says he is dead.

No pause or hush of merry birds
    That sing above
Tells us how coldly sleeps below
    The form we love.

Where hast thou been this year, beloved? 
    What hast thou seen,—­
What visions fair, what glorious life,
    Where hast thou been?

The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong! 
    ’Twixt us and thee;
The mystic veil! when shall it fall,
    That we may see?

Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,
    But present still,
And waiting for the coming hour
    Of God’s sweet will.

Lord of the living and the dead,
    Our Saviour dear! 
We lay in silence at thy feet
    This sad, sad year.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.

Oh, deem not they are blest alone
  Whose lives a peaceful tenor keep;
The Power who pities man, has shown
  A blessing for the eyes that weep.

The light of smiles shall fill again
  The lids that overflow with tears;
And weary hours of woe and pain
  Are promises of happier years.

There is a day of sunny rest
  For every dark and troubled night;
And grief may bide an evening guest,
  But joy shall come with early light.

And thou, who o’er thy friend’s low bier
  Dost shed the bitter drops like rain,
Hope that a brighter, happier sphere
  Will give him to thy arms again.