Dedicated to Mrs. William McKinley, Oct. 4, 1901

Weak are words, too well I know that,
     When the heart is sick with grief;
Only in oblivion’s slumber
     Is there found a respite brief.
Words which friendship fain would offer,
     Words to soothe, to cheer, to heal,
Only stab the heart but deeper,
     Only sympathy reveal.

Comfort! No, there is no comfort
     On the earth, dear one, for thee;
Thicker, thicker grow the shadows,
     From which thy sickening heart would flee.
There’s discord in the sweetest sounds;
     The flowers have no perfume;
The sunshine stealing in the room
     But mocks thy heart’s deep gloom. [677][678]

A withering blight is over all.
     Alone! alone you stand,
And ceaselessly mourn, and sigh and yearn
     To clasp that “vanished hand”—
The hand that made life sweet for thee
     So many trusting years.
’Twas held between thee and all harm,
     Safe refuge from thy fears.

Ah! how you miss the tender love,
     The kind and thoughtful care,
So needed to a woman’s life—
     That makes her skies so fair!
When love is gone, what is there left
     To which the heart can cling?
Each weary day, and dreary night,
     But desolation bring.

Bereaved! bereaved! oh, stricken one!
     Can none thy sorrow share?
No, no, you turn from all away,
     To lose yourself in prayer.
In thy deep grief but One alone
     Can troubled waters calm,
Yet on thy heart let friendship lay
     Its soothing hand of balm.