Behold her there in the evening sun, That kindles the Indian Summer trees To a separate burning bush, one by one, Wherein the Glory Divine she sees! Mate and nestlings she never had: Kith and kindred have passed away; Yet the sunset is not more gently glad, That follows her shadow, and fain would stay. For out of her life goes a breath of bliss, And a sunlike charm from her cheerful eye, That the cloud and the loitering breeze would miss; A balm that refreshes the passer-by. "Did she choose it, this single life?" Gossip, she saith not, and who can tell? But many a mother, and many a wife, Draws a lot more lonely, we all know well. Doubtless she had her romantic dream, Like other maidens, in May-time sweet, That flushes the air with a lingering gleam, And goldens the grass beneath her feet: - A dream unmoulded to visible form, That keeps the world rosy with mists of youth, And holds her in loyalty close and warm, To her fine ideal of manly truth. "But is she happy, a woman, alone?" Gossip, alone in this crowded earth, With a voice to quiet its hourly moan, And a smile to heighten its rarer mirth? There are ends more worthy than happiness: Who seeks it, is digging joy's grave, we know. The blessed are they who but live to bless; She found out that mystery, long ago. To her motherly, sheltering atmosphere, The children hasten from icy homes: The outcast is welcome to share her cheer; And the saint with a fervent benison comes. For the heart of woman is large as man's; God gave her his orphaned world to hold, And whispered through her His deeper plans To save it alive from the outer cold. And here is a woman who understood Herself, her work, and God's will with her, To gather and scatter His sheaves of good, And was meekly thankful, though men demur. Would she have walked more nobly, think, With a man beside her, to point the way, Hand joining hand in the marriage-link? Possibly, Yes: it is likelier, Nay. For all men have not wisdom and might: Love's eyes are tender, and blur the map; And a wife will follow by faith, not sight, In the chosen footprint, at any hap. In the comfort of home who is gladder than she? Yet, stirred by no murmer of "might have been," Her heart as a carolling bird soars free, With the song of each nest she has glanced within. Having the whole, she covets no part: Hers is the bliss of all blessed things. The tears that unto her eyelids start, Are those which a generous pity brings; Or the sympathy of heroic faith With a holy purpose, achieved or lost. To stifle the truth is to stop her breath, For she rates a lie at its deadly cost. Her friends are good women and faithful men, Who seek for the True, and uphold the Right; And who shall proclaim her the weaker, when Her very presence puts sin to flight? "And dreads she never the coming years?" Gossip, what are the years to her? All winds are fair, and the harbor nears, And every breeze a delight will stir. Transfigured under the sunset trees, That wreathe her with shadowy gold and red, She looks away to the purple seas, Whereon her shallop will soon be sped. She reads the hereafter by the here: A beautiful Now, and a better To Be: In life is all sweetness, in death no fear. You waste your pity on such as she. ~~~"Unwedded" by Lucy Larcom With love from friend, Barbara Bartley