Poems (Curwen)/To Annie

by Annie Isabel Curwen

For works with similar titles, see To Annie.

To Annie.

WRITTEN ON A GRAVESTONE IN LANCASTER CEMETERY, 1878.

I'm kneeling by your grave, Annie,
 This sweet September morn,
Weaving a kind of grave romance,
 From your tombstone old and worn.

You were very young to die, Annie,
 But you yourself know best;—
Perhaps your life was wearisome,
 And death has brought you rest.

The sun is shining warmly, Annie,
 Here where you lie beneath,
And the beauty of your resting place
 Makes me in love with death.

I should like to know about you, Annie,
 All about your earthly life,
And I wonder as I kneel here
 If you ever were a wife.

I wonder if you were, Annie,
 Or if you lived alone,
For your name looks, oh, so solitary,
 By itself upon the stone.

Or did you have a lover, Annie,
 Who gave the name to you?
Did you make him a good and faithful wife?
 And was he kind and true?

Was it hard for you to part, Annie,
 From love's last fond embrace?
Was it father, mother, husband, or child,
 Prest the last kiss on your face?

Why, among all these sleepers, Annie,
 Should I single out your stone?
Why? because the very name you bear
 I hope one day to own.

I shall often think about you, Annie,
 Though I may be far away,
For memory will oft recall
 My musings here to-day.

And when I sit, as I love to do,
 Alone in the twilight gloom,
I shall think of the quiet dreams I had
 Kneeling beside your tomb.

And now I'll say good-bye, Annie,
 While none are near to blame
A foolish girl for weeping
 O'er a familiar name.