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The Blessed Dead
by Helen Leah ReedThey loved life, even as we, who went away
From their dear dwelling-place to one unknown
To us who linger here. They could not stay,
Nor we go with them, so they went alone.
Although their beating hearts with ours kept time,
Although their clinging hands we fondly held,
We could not walk the path they had to climb,
Hardly we heard the death-call when it knelled.
Trustful, or fearful of the way ahead,
They had to journey from this throbbing life,
And we - we know they are the blessed dead,
For they have gone away from pain and strife.
We cannot see the land where they have gone.
Our eyes are dim, and they are hid in light,
But we are following them toward the dawn,
Who knows when it will break upon our sight!