At Hope's Grave

We said that Hope was dead
So many years ago;
We planned to make her bed
Where all the sweet flowers blow;
To lay her quiet head
Where the long grasses grow.

But while with tearful eyes,
Though tears must fall in vain,
And just permitted sighs
To ease our weary pain, —
Deeming she should not rise
Nor speak to us again, —

While thus we sat, behold!
She stirred; she was not dead!
Take off the wreath; unfold
The shroud; raise up her head, —
Not yet beneath the mould
And flowers shall be her bed.

But now when Spring is here, —
This day, this heavy day.
When skies are pure and clear.
And earth with flowers is gay, —
We clasp sad hands, my dear,
And turn our eyes away.

Our burning eyes away,
Because not by Hope's bed
We sit this young Spring day,
And fancy she is dead,
And find soft words to say,
And roses for her head:

But by her very grave,
Whereon the earth we heap,
Knowing no thing can save, —
That this is death, not sleep, —
We stand, but do not rave.
Too numb at heart to weep.