A BURIAL

by: Ella Wheeler Wilcox (1850-1919)

ODAY I had a burial of my dead.

There was no shroud, no coffin, and no pall,

No prayers were uttered and no tears were shed--

I only turned a picture to the wall.

 

A picture that had hung within my room

For years and years; a relic of my youth.

It kept the rose of love in constant bloom

To see those eyes of earnestness and truth.

 

At hours wherein no other dared intrude,

I had drawn comfort from its smiling grace.

Silent companion of my solitude,

My soul held sweet communion with that face.

 

I lived again the dream so bright, so brief,

Though wakened as we all are by some Fate;

This picture gave me infinite relief,

And did not leave me wholly desolate.

 

To-day I saw an item, quite by chance,

That robbed me of my pitiful poor dole:

A marriage notice fell beneath my glance,

And I became a lonely widowed soul.

 

With drooping eyes, and cheeks a burning flame,

I turned the picture to the blank wall's gloom.

My very heart had died in me of shame,

If I had left it smiling in my room.

 

Another woman's husband. So, my friend,

My comfort, my sole relic of the past,

I bury thee, and, lonely, seek the end.

Swift age has swept my youth from me at last.

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