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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=374045" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>In Memoryt Of Saretta Deakin</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">_Who Died on October 25th_, 1899.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">THERE was a day,<br>A horrible Autumn day,<br>When from her home, the home she made for ours<br>And that day made a nightmare of white flowers<br>And folk in black who whispered pityingly,<br>They carried her away;<br>And left our hearts all cold<br>And empty, yet with such a store to hold<br>Of sodden grief the slow drops still ooze out,<br>And, falling on all fair things, they wither these.<br>Tears came with time--but not with time went by.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And still we wander desolate about<br>The poor changed house, the garden and the croft,<br>Warm kitchen, sunny parlour, with the soft<br>Intolerable pervading memories<br>Of her whose face and voice made melodies,<br>Sweet unforgotten songs of mother-love--<br>Dear songs of all the little joys that were.<br>We see the sun, and have no joy thereof,<br>Because she gathered in her dying hands<br>And carried with her to the fair far lands<br>The flower of all our joy, because she went<br>Out of the garden where her days were spent,<br>And took the very sun away with her.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The cross stands at her head.<br>Over her breast, that loving mother-breast,<br>Close buds of pansies purple and white are pressed.<br>It seems a place for rest,<br>For happy folded sleep; but ah, not there,<br>Not there, not there, our hardest tears are shed,<br>But in the house made empty for her sake.<br>Here, in the night intolerable, wake<br>The hungry passionate pains of Love still strong<br>To fight with death the bitter slow night long.<br>Then the rich price that poor Love has to pay<br>Is paid, slow drop by drop, till the new day<br>With thin cold fingers pushes back night's wings,<br>And drags us out to common cruel things<br>That sting, and barb their stings with memory.<br>O Love--and is the price too hard to give?<br>Thine is the splendour of all things that live,<br>And this thy pain the price of life to thee--<br>The sacrament that binds to the beloved,<br>The chain that holds though mountains be removed,<br>The portent of thine immortality.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">So, in the house of pain imprisoned, we<br>Endure our bondage, and work out our time,<br>Nor seek from out our dungeon walls to climb--<br>Bondsmen, who would not, if we could, be free.<br>Thank God, our hands still hold Love's cord--and she--<br>Do not her hands still clasp the cord we hold,<br>Drawing us near, coiling bright fold on fold,<br>Till the far day when it shall draw us near<br>To the sight of her--her living hands, her dear<br>Tired face, grown weary of watching for our face?<br>And we shall hold her, in the happy place,<br>And hear her voice, the old same voice we knew--<br>'Ah! children, I am tired of wanting you!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Or, in some world more beautiful and dear<br>Than any she ever even dreamed of here,<br>Where time is changed, does she await the day<br>She longed for, and so little a while away,<br>When all the love we watered with our tears<br>Shall bloom, transplanted by the kindly years?<br>Dreaming through her new garden does she go,<br>Remembering the old garden, long ago,<br>Tending new flowers more fair than those that grow<br>In this sad garden where such sad flowers blow;<br>And, fondly touching bud and leaf and shoot,<br>Training her flowers to perfect branch and root,<br>Does she sometimes entreat some darling flower<br>To wait a little for its opening hour?<br>Can you not hear her voice: 'Ah, not to-day,<br>While my dear flowers, my own, are far away.<br>Be patient, bud! to-morrow soon will come:<br>Ah! blossom when my little girl comes home!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">But now. But here.<br>The empty house, the always empty place--<br>The black remembrance that no night blots out,<br>The memories, white, unbearable, and dear<br>That no white sunlight makes less cruel and clear?<br>The resistless riotous rout<br>Of cruel conquering thoughts, the night, the day?<br>Love is immortal: this the price to pay.<br>Worse than all pain it would be to forget--<br>On Love's brave brow the crown of thorns is set.<br>Love is no niggard: though the price be high<br>Into God's market Love goes forth to buy<br>With royal meed God's greatest gifts and gain,<br>Love offers up his whole rich store of pain,<br>And buys of God Love's immortality.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Edith+Nesbit">Edith Nesbit</a><div class=q>
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THERE was a day,
A horrible Autumn day,
When from her home, the home she made for ours
And that day made a nightmare of white flowers
And folk in black who whispered pityingly,
They carried her away;
And left our..."></div>
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