Poems (Chitwood)/To Mrs. I——— M——— M———

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TO MRS. J——— M——— M———
When my pathway led through valleys,
 Where the meek-eyed daisies grew;
When I rested on the mosses,
 Braiding violets of blue,
 ​Listening to the breeze that fingered
 Softly his delightful lyre;
When I rambled through the wild-wood
 With a step that did not tire;
When I sought the lark's low pillow
 In the dewy, grassy glen—
Oh, that I had met thee, dear one;
 Oh, that I had met thee then.

Now, when all the world seems darker,
 Far less lovely, than of old;
When I see the cloud, but can not
 Trace its under-tints of gold;
Now, when confidence is broken,
 When I fear to love and trust;
When I find the world's affection,
 Frail and perishing as dust;
When the tempest blows about me
 Till my soul must almost bow,—
Oh, for thy true heart to love me—
 Would that I could meet thee now.

In that world that shines above us,
 Where all tears are wiped away;
In that world to which our spirits
 Soar on prayer-wings, day by day;
By the tree of life, sweet sister,
 In green pastures, fair and bright,
Where the pure and meek-eyed angels
 Rest upon their wings of white,—
 ​If we meet here never, never,
 'Tis my earnest, faithful prayer,
That, when this short life is over,
 I shall meet thee, meet thee there.

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