To a Lady: On the Death of Her Mother and Daughter

Sara, — so let me call thee, since that name
Is most familiar to thj friendly ear.
And for a mother that is now no more,
And for a sister, passing dear to me —
Long time it seems since thou and I have spoken
In verse or honest prose, or, happier still,
With running comment of looks, lips, and eyes.
And silence, when our mutual thought was heard,
Discoursed by mute and secret sympathy.
Interpreted by some half-melting star,
That seem'd a part of twilight, or akin
To the retiring, pensive, tawny hill,
So dim reflected in the dozing lake.
It wot not of its presence ; — lake once proud
Of diamonds dripping from thy silvery oar.
When thou, thy boat, and its long-headed wake,
Seem'd like the shadow of a Glendoveer,
Floating above in smallest skiff of heaven,
So shy, he would and yet would not be seen.
Those times are past, and I have known thee tamed
To sober womanhood and matron grave.
Yet like the ever-glad Hesperian tree,
Whose summer fruitage gleams through vernal flowers :
And I have seen thee, too, in double grief
For two pure souls removed, so like each other,
They may be playmates in the bowers of bliss,
For souls like theirs receive no taint of time.
And who can doubt that each fine faculty,
But half-develop'd in the prophet spring
Of thy sweet Katherine's little life, shall bloom
In God's own light, consummate and fulfill