I think, she said at first, My daughter did not kill herself. I'm sure Someone did violence to her, your tests, Examination will prove violence. It would be like her fate to meet with such: Poor child, unfortunate from birth, at least Unfortunate in fortune, peace and joy. Or else if she met with no violence, Some sudden crisis of her woman's heart Came on her by the river, the result Of strains and labors in the war in France. I'll tell you why I say this: First I knew She had come near me from New York, there came A letter from her, saying she had come To visit with her aunt there near LeRoy, And rest and get the country air. She said To keep it secret, not to tell her father; That she was in no frame of mind to come And be with us, and see her father, see Our life, which is the same as it was when She was a child and after. But she said To come to her. And so the day before They found her by the river I went over And saw her for the day. She seemed most gay, Gave me the presents which she brought from France, Told me of many things, but rather more By way of half told things than something told Continuously, you know. She had grown fairer, She had a majesty of countenance, A luminous glory shone about her face, Her voice was softer, eyes looked tenderer. She held my hands so lovingly when we met. She kissed me with such silent, speaking love. But then she laughed and told me funny stories. She seemed all hope, and said she'd rest awhile Before she made a plan for life again. And when we parted, she said: "Mother, think What trip you'd like to take. I've saved some money, And you must have a trip, a rest, construct Yourself anew for life." So, as I said, She came to death by violence, or else She had some weakness that she hid from me Which came upon her quickly. For the rest, Suppose I told you all my life, and told What was my waste in life and what in hers, How I have lived, and how poor Elenor Was raised or half-raised--what's the good of that? Are not there rooms of books, of tales and poems And histories to show all secrets of life? Does anyone live now, or learn a thing Not lived and learned a thousand times before? The trouble is these secrets are locked up In books and might as well be locked in graves, Since they mean nothing till you live yourself. And I suppose the race will live and suffer As long as leaves put forth in spring, live over The very sorrows, horrors that we live. Wisdom is here, but how to learn that wisdom, And use it while life's worth the living, that's The thing to be desired. But let it go. If any soul can profit by my life, Or by my Elenor's, I trust he may, And help him to it.