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Poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox
To-day 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.
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
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