Dead

by Phoebe Carey

Dead! yet there comes no shriek, on tear, --
My agony is dumb;
I've thought, and feared, and known so long
That such an hour must come:

For when her once sweet household cares
Grew wearier every day,
And, dropping from her listless hand,
Her work was put away.

I knew that all her tasks were done,
And, though I wept and prayed,
I always thought of her as one
For whom the shroud is made.

She talked of growing strong and well,
To soothe our parting pain:
I knew it would be well with her
Before we met again; --

I knew upon that lonesome hill,
Where winter now is drear,
They'd have to make another grave
Before another year.

I hope that they will dig it there:
I would not have it made
Between the graves where strangers sleep,
Under the cypress shade.

I'd have it where our sisters gone
Are sleeping side by side,
And where we weeping orphans laid
Our mother when she died.

There, too, with beauty scarcely dimmed,
And curls of shining gold,
We covered little Ellie's face,
And hid it in the mould.

So bring her there, and when they rise
Who in the dust have lain,
She'll see her little baby wake,
And take him up again.