To a Young Girl Dying: With a Gift of Fresh Palm-Leaves
THIS is Palm-Sunday : mindful of the day,
I bring palm-branches, found upon my way:
But these will wither; thine shall never die,—
The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky !
Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
Older in wisdom than my gray compeers !
We doubt and tremble, — we with ’bated breath
Talk of this mystery of life and death:
Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive
Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe !
I bring palm-branches, found upon my way:
But these will wither; thine shall never die,—
The sacred palms thou bearest to the sky !
Dear little saint, though but a child in years,
Older in wisdom than my gray compeers !
We doubt and tremble, — we with ’bated breath
Talk of this mystery of life and death:
Thou, strong in faith, art gifted to conceive
Beyond thy years, and teach us to believe !
Then take my palms, triumphal, to thy home,
Gentle white palmer, never more to roam !
Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go’st,
Thy benediction, — for my love thou know’st!
We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine :
Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine !
Gentle white palmer, never more to roam !
Only, sweet sister, give me, ere thou go’st,
Thy benediction, — for my love thou know’st!
We, too, are pilgrims, travelling towards the shrine :
Pray that our pilgrimage may end like thine !