Mrs. Mary Furman Weston Byrd

Though no blossoms cluster
  Above thy aged brow,
Though winter winds are breathing
  A requiem soft and low,
We look beyond earth’s shadows,
  Beyond death’s misty plain,
And though we sadly miss thee,
  Will not wish thee back again.

Could we but see thee, dear one,
  In the Palace of thy Lord,
With thy robe of snowy whiteness,
  And with more than youth renewed.
No more on bended willows
  Would our broken harps remain,
Take us beauty for our ashes,
  Take us gladness for our pain.