We stand about this place—we, the memories; And shade our eyes because we dread to read: “June 17th, 1884, aged 21 years and 3 days.” And all things are changed. And we—we, the memories, stand here for ourselves alone, For no eye marks us, or would know why we are here. Your husband is dead, your sister lives far away, Your father is bent with age; He has forgotten you, he scarcely leaves the house Any more. No one remembers your exquisite face, Your lyric voice! How you sang, even on the morning you were stricken, With piercing sweetness, with thrilling sorrow, Before the advent of the child which died with you. It is all forgotten, save by us, the memories, Who are forgotten by the world. All is changed, save the river and the hill— Even they are changed. Only the burning sun and the quiet stars are the same. And we—we, the memories, stand here in awe, Our eyes closed with the weariness of tears— In immeasurable weariness Charles Webster The pine woods on the hill, And the farmhouse miles away, Showed clear as though behind a lens Under a sky of peacock blue! But a blanket of cloud by afternoon Muffled the earth. And you walked the road And the clover field, where the only sound Was the cricket’s liquid tremolo. Then the sun went down between great drifts Of distant storms. For a rising wind Swept clean the sky and blew the flames Of the unprotected stars; And swayed the russet moon, Hanging between the rim of the hill And the twinkling boughs of the apple orchard. You walked the shore in thought Where the throats of the waves were like whip-poor-wills Singing beneath the water and crying To the wash of the wind in the cedar trees, Till you stood, too full for tears, by the cot, And looking up saw Jupiter, Tipping the spire of the giant pine, And looking down saw my vacant chair, Rocked by the wind on the lonely porch— Be brave, Beloved! Father Malloy You are over there, Father Malloy, Where holy ground is, and the cross marks every grave, Not here with us on the hill— Us of wavering faith, and clouded vision And drifting hope, and unforgiven sins. You were so human, Father Malloy, Taking a friendly glass sometimes with us, Siding with us who would rescue Spoon River From the coldness and the dreariness of village morality. You were like a traveler who brings a little box of sand From the wastes about the pyramids And makes them real and Egypt real. You were a part of and related to a great past, And yet you were so close to many of us. You believed in the joy of life. You did not seem to be ashamed of the flesh. You faced life as it is, And as it changes. Some of us almost came to you, Father Malloy, Seeing how your church had divined the heart, And provided for it, Through Peter the Flame, Peter the Rock. Ami Green