The crocus-cups had opened
Their beauty to the sun,
The haxels were outhanging
Their tassels, one by one;
The violets were blowing,
The cold, dark days were done.
The meadow-larks were singing
That February day,
Their notes as clear and joyous
As though the month were May,
When we went, broken-hearted,
To bear the child away.
So we shall always see her
Among the blooms at rest,
The peace upon her forehead,
The violets on her breast;
And hear about her singing
The love-larks of the West.
Yea, tho’ our hopes lie buried
With her low, low and deep,
This thought shall be our comfort
The while we sit and weep:
God gave to us the sorrow,
To her the blessed sleep.
“To Her the Blessed Sleep” as it appears in Higginson’s The Voice of April-Land (1903).