In the spring when Nature was waking
From her long and much-needed rest,
Two hearts pledged anew their sacred vows,
As he left his cozy home-nest,
To meet as they thought in the Autumn,
When the farmer had gathered the seed;
Though the thought had made her feel lonely
Still in parting she bade him "God-speed."
Each week came a kind loving letter,
Bringing joy to the heart of the wife,
As she carefully watched o'er her children,
"One of the happiest duties of life."
Now Autumn is here and the dry leaves
Are falling so silent and free;
And she waits in fond expectation,
For soon that meeting will be.
But, click, click, o-'er the wires comes a message,
Sending over the city a gloom,
For that manly voice now is silent,
The body now robed for the tomb.
What was it that caused this so quickly,
Did he come to some tragical end?
Or was there some word of comfort.
To be borne to each loving friend?
Nay! He lay down to rest and to slumber,
Perhaps he was dreaming of home,
When death sent his agent--the gas jet,
And whispered so softly, “Now come."
Maybe in his dreams he was meeting
His wife and children once more,
And in this happy dream his spirit took flight,
To return to the body no more.
Death is sad when we stand by the bedside
Of one whom we love most dear,
And we know by the parched and fevered lips
That the end is almost here.
But oh, the pangs when no warning comes
To tell or what is to be.
Oh, the heartaches, the sobs and the grieving,
With the sorrow we cannot foresee.
When the husband, the heart's dearest treasure,
Is torn from the wife's fond embrace,
Then life might seem only a burden,
Such sorrow time cannot efface.
Though the form, today, now is sleeping,
Methinks that the spirit is near;
Unseen though it be, yet its presence,
Can dry the sorrowing tear.
Though the heart-strings are now almost severed,
Yet calmly she waits for her dead,
That she might clasp again those cold fingers,
And imprint it last kiss on his forehead;
But even that boon seemed denied her,
For the destroyer has wrought his work well.
Without even a glance she must give up her dead,
With what sorrow no mortal can tell.
Fain would we bear part of the burden,
Oft sympathy's tear will be shed,
But words are such poor consolation,
While mourning for those who are dead,
But God in his infinite wisdom,
Knows best what is good for us all.
Then leave it, sad wife, to the Master,
He can lighten the funeral pall.