In Kittery Churchyard

“ Mary, wife of Charles Chauncy, died April 23, 1758, in the 24th year of her age.”

CRUSHING the scarlet strawberries in the grass,
I kneel to read the slanting stone. Alas !
How sharp a sorrow speaks ! A hundred years
And more have vanished, with their smiles and tears,
Since here was laid, upon an April day,
Sweet Mary Chauncy in the grave away, —
A hundred years since here her lover stood
Beside her grave in such despairing mood,
And yet from out the vanished past I hear
His cry of anguish sounding deep and clear,
And all my heart, with pity melts, as though
To-day’s bright sun were looking on his woe.
“Of such a wife, O righteous Heaven! bereft,
What joy for me, what joy on earth is left ?
Still from my inmost soul the groans arise,
Still flow the sorrows ceaseless from mine eyes.”
Alas, poor tortured soul! I look away
From the dark stone, — how brilliant shines the day!
A low wall, over which the roses shed
Their perfumed petals, shuts the quiet dead
Apart a little, and the tiny square
Stands in the broad and laughing field so fair,
And gay green vines climb o’er the rough stone-wall,
And all about the wild birds flit and call,
And but a stone’s-throw southward, the blue sea
Rolls sparkling in and sings incessantly.
Lovely as any dream the peaceful place,
And scarcely changed since on her gentle face
For the last time on that sad April day
He gazed, and felt, for him, all beauty lay
Buried with her forever. Dull to him
Looked the bright world through eyes with tears so dim!
“I soon shall follow the same dreary way
That leads and opens to the coasts of day.”
His only hope! But when slow time had dealt
Firmly with him and kindly, and he felt
The storm and stress of strong and piercing pain
Yielding at last, and he grew calm again,
Doubtless he found another mate before
He followed Mary to the happy shore!
But none the less his grief appeals to me
Who sit and listen to the singing sea
This matchless summer day, beside the stone
He made to echo with his bitter moan,
And in my eyes I feel the foolish tears
For buried sorrow, dead a hundred years !
Celia Thaxter.