C.D. Warner, et al., comp. The Library of the World’s Best Literature.
An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Mary Booth

WHAT shall we do now, Mary being dead,

Or say or write that shall express the half?

What can we do but pillow that fair head,

And let the Springtime write her epitaph?—

As it will soon, in snowdrop, violet,

Wind-flower and columbine and maiden’s-tear;

Each letter of that pretty alphabet

That spells in flowers the pageant of the year.

She was a maiden for a man to love;

She was a woman for a husband’s life;

One that has learned to value, far above

The name of love, the sacred name of wife.

Her little life-dream, rounded so with sleep,

Had all there is of life, except gray hairs:

Hope, love, trust, passion and devotion deep;

And that mysterious tie a mother bears.

She hath fulfilled her promise and hath passed:

Set her down gently at the iron door!

Eyes look on that loved image for the last:

Now cover it in earth—her earth no more.