Menella Bute Smedley (1820–1877)

“WIND me a summer crown,” she said,

“And set it on my brows;

For I must go, while I am young,

Home to my Father’s house.

“And make me ready for the day,

And let me not be stayed;

I would not linger on the way,

As if I was afraid.

“O! will the golden courts of heaven,

When I have paced them o’er,

Be lovely as my lily walks

Which I must see no more?

“And will the seraph hymns and harps,

When they have filled my ear,

Be tender as my mother’s voice,

Which I must never hear?

“And shall I lie where sunsets drift

Or where the stars are born,

Or where the living tints are mixed

To paint the clouds of morn?”

Your mother’s tones shall reach you still,

Even sweeter than they were;

And the false love that broke your heart

Shall be forgotten there.

And not of star or flower is born

The beauty of that shore;

There is a Face which you shall see,

And wish for nothing more.