Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/A Walk to My Own Grave

by Sarah Piatt

A WALK TO MY OWN GRAVE. [WITH THREE CHILDREN.]

There! do not stop to cry.
 "The path is long?—we walk so slow?"
But we shall get there by and by.
 Every step that we go
 Is one step nearer, you know:
And your mother's grave will be
Such a pretty place to see.

"Will there be marble there,
 With doves, or lambs, or lilies?" No.
Keep white yourselves. Why should you care
 If they are as white as snow,
 When the lilies can not blow,
And the doves can never moan,
Nor the lambs bleat—in the stone?

You want some flowers? Oh!
 We shall not find them on the way.
Only a few brier-roses grow,
 Here and there, in the sun, I say.
 It is dusty and dry all day,
But at evening there is shade,
And—you will not be afraid?

Ah, the flowers? Surely, yes.
 At the end there will be a few.
"Violets? Violets?" So I guess,
 And a little grass and dew;
 And some birds—you want them blue?
And a spring, too, as I think,
Where we will rest and drink.

Now kiss me and be good,
 For you can go back home and play.
This is my grave here in the wood,
 Where I, for a while, must stay.
 Wait—will you always pray,
Though you are sleepy, at night?
There! do not forget me—quite.

Keep the baby sweetly dressed,
 And give him milk and give him toys;
Rock him, as I did, to his rest,
 And never make any noise,
 Brown-eyed girl and blue-eyed boys,
Until he wakes. Good-bye,
And—do not stop to cry!