Of Blessed Memory

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I often wonder mother loves to creep
Up to the garret where a cupboard stands,
And sit upon the musty floor and weep,
Holding a baby’s dresses in her hands.

I often wonder grandma loves to sit
Alone where hangs a picture on the wall —
A handsome face across whose features flit
The phantoms of a love she would recall.

I wonder, too, that sister, pale and sad,
Waits at the gate, and, waiting, seems to hear
The footfalls of the brave, heroic lad
Who nevermore may woo her waiting there.


The little lips in voiceless death are sealed;
The haughty squire seeks now a lasting sleep;
The lover’s bones bleach on a battle-field —
And broken-hearted women live to weep.

© Eugene Field