Verse > Anthologies > Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. > An American Anthology, 1787–1900
Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908).  An American Anthology, 1787–1900.  1900.
877. Now
By Mary Barker Dodge
UPON my bier no garlands lay,
  To shrivel at death’s icy touch;
Pansies for thought bequeathed to-day,
  Were worth a thousand such!
Rare flowers too often serve the pride        5
  Which grants them—naught beside.
No lavish tears that laggard be,
  Pour vainly on my pulseless clay;
A single drop of sympathy
  Were richer boon to-day;        10
To-day I need it—but, thank God,
  No need is in the sod.
Yield now the sign, or let me go
  Unlaurelled into waiting space;
Not taunted by a hollow show        15
  Of friendship’s tardy grace;
Not mocked by fruits that would not fall
  Save as an idle pall.
Fair blossoms with love’s dewdrops wet,
  And fondly laid in folded hands,        20
Must hold the grateful spirit yet
  While wandering in strange lands;
But wounded souls the meed must spurn
  That only Death can earn!


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