“She is dead,” they said,
And they gathered up the things,
Of her days-
Life’s little spindle,
Her gentle ways…..
The hopes of her pleasing,
Her little vigil hours,
The chest of her maiden dreams,
The flowers of a gladder faith,
The lavender of old tears…
Afterwards, in one chest
In the room she had slept in,
They found the gentle joys
Of her waiting years.
by Opal Whiteley, from The Flower of Stars