OPEN the gates of your heart and let her go.
The gates are high and the lock is hard, I know,
And, wistful, the anchors of home would faithfully hold
Her fast — her bag, her shawl with its empty fold.
All day the robin has pled from the locust tree,
And the lambs she loved gone wistful across the lea;
Dark rain on the mountain, and tears on your cheek, but she
Heeds them not now. She is busy, with deep-drawn breath
On breath, greeting her tall strange visitor Death.
He has wrapt her about in his mantle of wisdom away
From your touch; your tears, your kisses are naught to-day.
In vain the larkspurs bloom in the garden bed,
And the gossamer’s jeweled gift on the grass is spread;
In vain the poppies, in vain your grief, and so
You must open the gates of your heart and let her go.
And now there are folk by her side you never knew,
They are only faded daguerreotypes to you;
Quaint people in stocks and pantalettes, kept there
With the little brown curl she tenderly marked ‘Mother’s hair.’
Nothing but names to you, they were dead so long,
But now — ah, strange! She is yours no more,'t is their strong
Hidden arms that receive, their love that has bade her depart,
And their cold, cold fingers that are breaking the lock of your heart.
— Ah, wistful robin, and lambs you call, but no,
We must open the difficult gates and let her go.
Death in the room ancl her folk come back, and dim
In the shadow a Presence there. Now unto Him
She is lifting the chaliced dew of her fragrant days —
Wine of her life, her love, her beneficent ways —
Dear ways of pleasantness in paths of peace.
O mystical moment! O sacred and singing release!
Into his heart He has taken her gift, and lo.
The iron portals swing open to let her go!
Now hastily dress her in shimmering love, and spread
A pathway of prayer for her darling feet to tread —
The rain has given its jewels, the robin the sou!
Of his song, and t he garden s breath is an aureole
Master of death, and Lord ol file, unto Thee
We open the gates of our heart and set her free.