To Lucy Hinton: December 19, 1921
O loveliest face, on which we look our last—
Not without hope we may again behold
Somewhere, somehow, when we ourselves have passed
Where, Lucy, you have gone, this face so dear,
That gathered beauty every changing year,
And made Youth dream of some day being old.
Some knew the girl, and some the woman grown,
And each was fair, but always ’twas your way
To be more beautiful than yesterday,
To win where others lose; and Time, the doom
Of other faces, brought to yours new bloom.
Now, even from Death you snatch mysterious grace,
This last perfection for your lovely face.
So with your spirit was it day by day,
That spirit unextinguishably gay,
That to the very border of the shade
Laughed on the muttering darkness unafraid.
We shall be lonely for your lovely face,
Lonely for all your great and gracious ways,
But for your laughter loneliest of all.
Yet in our loneliness we think of one
Lonely no more, who, on the heavenly stair,
Awaits your face, and hears your step at last,
His dreamer’s eyes a glory like the sun,
Again in his sad arms to hold you fast,
All your long honeymoon in heaven begun.
Thinking on that, O dear and loveliest friend,
We, in that bright beginning of this end,
Must bate our grief, and count our mortal loss
Only as his and your immortal gain,
Glad that for him and you it is so well.
Lucy, O Lucy, a little while farewell.
