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! Where grief is silent, we may know full well that then She's soared away, To follow as she, thus earth-trammelled, can The soul astray! And needeth not upon her flight the voice of men, Or earthly lay! Then, Pitying Love, until she cometh back again, Thy hand, oh stay! R. H.
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