NOT by her grave: thither I bid them take <br />Fresh garlands of the flowers that pleased her best, <br />And lay them by the headstone, for my sake, <br />My token and remembrance with the rest: <br />But here, where in the brightening of the west <br />I see her mountains grow into the sky, <br />Her native world, and mine because of her, <br />Here, where that low sigh of the pinewood's stir, <br />That was her dearest music, fills all sound <br />,I am with her; <br />And always, always, past comes passing by, <br />Lost in her grave, but here as if half found. <br /> <br />Not by her grave: it is too still, too cold, <br />And save my loss is nothing with me there. <br />What memories have I there of her of old? <br />They came not there, the dear lost days that were; <br />Not she lies there, but only my despair; <br />Not she, but death and all my loneliness. <br />What memories save all memories love must shun? <br />I would not think of death and her as one; <br />She shall be only life-ful in my mind, <br />With life's self one; <br />A name of glad remindings and old bliss, <br />So something of her presence left behind. <br /> <br />Not by her grave: some day will I return, <br />When sorrow keeps its wont unvexed by place, <br />And, sitting on the turf beside, will learn <br />To call before me there her waking face, <br />Not that white face that slept and took no trace <br />Of change because I kissed it, nor for tears. <br />Some day; for now I should forget her so, <br />Lose the fair happy woman and but know <br />The coldness and the silence when she died, <br />Lose her all so, <br />My love that was my life of all for years. <br />She loved this music when the pinewoods sighed.<br /><br />Augusta Davies Webster<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/her-memories-2/
