The Fortunate One Poem by Harriet Monroe

BESIDE her ashen hearth she sate her down,
Whence he she loved had fled,—
His children plucking at her sombre gown
And calling for the dead.

One came to her clad in the robes of May,
And said sweet words of cheer,
Bidding her bear the burden in God’s way,
And feel her loved ones near.

And she who spake thus would have given, thrice blest,
Long lives of happy years,
To clasp his children to a mother’s breast,
And weep his widow’s tears.