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Sarah A. Heinzerling, death, in English Clear filters

SadSarah A. Heinzerling

My Friend Is Dead

My friend is dead! I shall not see her face again, Or hear her soothing voice When I need The comfort of kind words; I shall not meet her on the street; She will not come To visit me at home; My friend is dead! Yet, still she lives, And moves serenely through the halls, The winding, hidden halls Of Memory. Her smile is pictured there As I last saw it, Etched on my brain
AngrySarah A. Heinzerling

A World-War Sonnet

Goodbye, Old Year! You brought so much of woe, Such frightful carnage and such needless pain That none desire you longer to remain; Instead, the world rejoices that you go, To what dim bourne few either care or know; They only know that hill and vale and plain, Are sodden with blood of countless slain, And that you failed to stop its wasteful flow. We welcomed you with joyful pealing bells, Expecting kindness from the New Year’s hand; It held the armaments of war instead, And turned their ringing into funeral knells. From stricken homes in every stricken land, We bid you, "Go, and leave us with our dead!"
SadSarah A. Heinzerling

Deserted

The woods are dim and still, my love, No sound the silence waking, Except the throbbing of my heart That beats while it is breaking. How could you wound it so, my love, Give pain past human bearing, By rending bonds that only death Absolves from mutual wearing ? Night breezes pause in flight, my love, Where withered age is lying, To kiss the pallid cheek of one They know is dying—dying. Goodbye, my love! Goodbye, my love! My soul from earth is going; How dark and lonely is the way,— How chill the wind is blowing!
SadSarah A. Heinzerling

The Octogenarian

She gropes along the lofty road, The lonely road of age; The friends she loved in youth no more Her pangs of grief assuage; They stopped one at a time beside The long trail left behind; She mounts alone at eighty-odd, Halt—deaf, and nearly blind. She dimly sees the younger folk Go dancing on their way, And catches faint, far echoes of Their mirth, from day to day; But life, for her, has lost its joy, Its laughter and its zest; She meekly waits for death to come And bring its promised rest.

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