As one who held herself a part Of what she saw, and let her heart Against the household bosom lean, Upon the motley-braided mat Our youngest and our dearest sat, Lifting her large, sweet, asking eyes, Now bathed within the fadeless green And holy peace, of Paradise. Oh, looking from some heavenly hill, Or from the shade of saintly palms, Or silver reach of river calms, Do those large eyes behold me still? With me one little year ago-- The chill weight of the winter snow For months upon her grave has lain: And now, when summer south winds blow And brier and harebell bloom again, I tread the pleasant paths we trod, I see the violet-sprinkled sod Whereon she leaned, too frail and weak The hillside flowers she loved to seek, Yet following me where'er I went With dark eyes full of love's content. The birds are glad; the brier-rose fills The air with sweetness; all the hills Stretch green to June's unclouded sky; But still I wait with ear and eye For something gone which should be nigh, A loss in all familiar things, In flower that blooms, and bird that sings. And yet, dear heart, remembering thee, Am I not richer than of old? Safe in thy immortality, What change can reach the wealth I hold? What chance can mar the pearl and gold Thy love hath left in trust for me? And while in life's late afternoon, Where cool and long the shadows grow, I walk to meet the night that soon Shall shape and shadow overflow, I cannot feel that thou art far, Since near at need the angels are; And when the sunset gates unbar, Shall I not see thee waiting stand, And, white against the evening star, The welcome of thy beckoning hand? But Miss Whittier's influence did not cease with her death. How much her brother missed her no one will ever know. He had been accustomed to consult her, and to value her opinion. In his next published poem, "The Tent on the Beach," he refers regretfully to the Memory of one who might have tuned my song To sweeter music by her delicate ear. But the sister's influence was felt not only in the sweet sadness which such a memory casts over a life. As a poet Whittier was enabled to proceed to still greater heights. Her loss did not check his zeal or stay his pen, but only softened and toned his utterance by the mellowing and purifying influence of tender recollection.