I do not weep;
I would not weep;
Our mother needs no tears:
Dry thine eyes, too; 'tis vain to
This causeless grief for years.
What though her brow be changed and cold,
Her sweet eyes closed for ever?
What though the stone—the darksome
Our mortal bodies sever?
What though her hand smooth ne'er
Those silken locks of thine?
Nor, through long hours of future pain,
Her kind face o'er thee shine?
Remember still, she is not dead;
She sees us, sister, now;
Laid, where her angel spirit fled,'Mid heath and frozen snow.
And from that world of heavenly
Will she not always
To guide us in our lifetime's night,
And guard us to the end?
Thou knowest she will; and thou mayst
That WE are left below:
But not that she can ne'er
To share our earthly woe.
