Baroness de Rothschild by Emily Marion Harris

Though life may fade, love never dies,
And all but love, is now a dream
To her, who in her long sleep lies
Enwrapped in flowers, and love supreme.
What, if the solemn shadows stir,
To sobbing sighs and broken prayer,
Love folds its mantle over her
And shields her, in its tender care.

Sadly the mystic hours of night
Flit past, still undisturbed by these,
Or sudden glow of morning light
Or waking birds, or waving trees.
She lies, who heeds not days and hours,
The sweet, soft bird song, nor one tear
Beneath her canopy of flowers
Indifferent now to joy and fear.

Earth’s voices touch her not; nor grieve
Her warm and generous heart with pain,
O sorrowing mourners, we believe
That God shall raise her up again,
That in some half-guessed, happier sphere,
Some perfect world, but part confessed
To us poor mortals weeping here,
“He giveth His beloved rest.”

And so Beloved, we part from you,
We, clothed by you, and housed and fed,
Not hopeless, though the words are true,
Our blessed Baroness is dead!
The poor, your monument shall raise,
Statelier than sculptured tomb above
That cherished form, of love and praise
Who loved her God; whose God is love.

From: https://www.poetryexplorer.net/poem.php?id=10067340

Date: c1884

By: Emily Marion Harris (1844-1900)

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