After that from everywhere

Singing life will find him there;
Then the door will open wide,
And my friend, again outside,
Will be living, having died.

No longer torn by what she knows
And sees within the eyes of others,
Her doubts are when the daylight goes,
Her fears are for the few she bothers.
She tells them it is wholly wrong
Of her to stay alive so long;
And when she smiles her forehead shows
A crinkle that had been her mother's.

Beneath her beauty, blanched with pain,
And wistful yet for being cheated,
A child would seem to ask again
A question many times repeated;
But no rebellion has betrayed
Her wonder at what she has paid
For memories that have no stain,
For triumph born to be defeated.
To those who come for what she was
The few left who know where to find her

She clings, for they are all she has;—
And she may smile when they remind her,—
As heretofore, of what they know
Of roses that are still to blow
By ways where not so much as grass

Remains of what she sees behind her.