The Friends Burial

My thoughts are all in yonder town,     Where, wept by many tears,     To-day my mother's friend lays down     The burden of her years.     True as in life, no poor disguise     Of death with her is seen,     And on her simple casket lies     No wreath of bloom and green.     Oh, not for her the florist's art,     The mocking weeds of woe;     Dear memories in each mourner's heart     Like heaven's white lilies blow.     And all about the softening air     Of new-born sweetness tells,     And the ungathered May-flowers wear     The tints of ocean shells.     The old, assuring miracle     Is fresh as heretofore;     And earth takes up its parable     Of life from death once more.     Here organ-swell and church-bell toll     Methinks but discord were;     The prayerful silence of the soul     Is best befitting her.     No sound should break the quietude     Alike of earth and sky     O wandering wind in Seabrook wood,     Breathe but a half-heard sigh!     Sing softly, spring-bird, for her sake;     And thou not distant sea,     Lapse lightly as if Jesus spake,     And thou wert Galilee!     For all her quiet life flowed on     As meadow streamlets flow,     Where fresher green reveals alone     The noiseless ways they go.     From her loved place of prayer I see     The plain-robed mourners pass,     With slow feet treading reverently     The graveyard's springing grass.     Make room, O mourning ones, for me,     Where, like the friends of Paul,     That you no more her face shall see     You sorrow most of all.     Her path shall brighten more and more     Unto the perfect day;     She cannot fail of peace who bore     Such peace with her away.     O sweet, calm face that seemed to wear     The look of sins forgiven!     O voice of prayer that seemed to bear     Our own needs up to heaven!     How reverent in our midst she stood,     Or knelt in grateful praise!     What grace of Christian womanhood     Was in her household ways!     For still her holy living meant     No duty left undone;     The heavenly and the human blent     Their kindred loves in one.     And if her life small leisure found     For feasting ear and eye,     And Pleasure, on her daily round,     She passed unpausing by,     Yet with her went a secret sense     Of all things sweet and fair,     And Beauty's gracious providence     Refreshed her unaware.     She kept her line of rectitude     With love's unconscious ease;     Her kindly instincts understood     All gentle courtesies.     An inborn charm of graciousness     Made sweet her smile and tone,     And glorified her farm-wife dress     With beauty not its own.     The dear Lord's best interpreters     Are humble human souls;     The Gospel of a life like hers     Is more than books or scrolls.     From scheme and creed the light goes out,     The saintly fact survives;     The blessed Master none can doubt     Revealed in holy lives