The bright sea washed beneath her feet,
As it had done of yore,
The well-remembered odor sweet
Came through her opening door.

Again the grass his ripened head
Bowed where her raiment swept;
Again the fog-bell told of dread,
And all the landscape wept.

Again beside the woodland bars
She found the wilding rose,
With petals fine and heart of stars,—
The flower our childhood knows.

And there, before that blossom small,
By its young face beguiled,
The woman saw her burden fall,
And stood a little child.

She knew no more the weight of love,
No more the weight of grief;
So could the simple wild-rose move
And bring her heart relief.

She asked not where her love was gone,
Nor where her grief was fled,
But stood as at the great white throne,
Unmindful of things dead.