Step not within the shrine where sitteth sacred grief,
With cheek as pale
As his, who but an hour ago, like autumn leaf
Before the gale,
Outpoured his momentary thrill of life, so brief!
For what avail
Thy feet upon her holy floors?—Sure, no relief
To mourner's wail!
Mar not the beauty of the spirit's final flight
From earth below,
By dwelling on the last sad Incidents, ere light
Quite lost its glow!
Not with officious word deplore the deathly night
And deathly blow,
That fall so often 'cross our way, with fearful might,
Where flowers grow!
Where grief is silent, sympathy consisteth not
In human word,
Or heart o'erflowing fast with many a trite old thought,—
Mere surface stirred!
Believe me, thou who wouldst around the lonely spot
Such mantle gird,
That even pity's voice, with kindliest feelings fraught,
Hath often erred!
