Memorials

Death sets a thing significantThe eye had hurried by,Except a perished creatureEntreat us tenderly

To ponder little workmanshipsIn crayon or in wool,With "This was last her fingers did,"Industrious until

The thimble weighed too heavy,The stitches stopped themselves,And then 't was put among the dustUpon the closet shelves.

A book I have, a friend gave,Whose pencil, here and there,Had notched the place that pleased him,—At rest his fingers are.

Now, when I read, I read not,For interrupting tearsObliterate the etchingsToo costly for repairs.