I stand beside her grave; the sod is brown,
Long hours of sunshine o'er the mound must pass,
And winds must blow and gentle rains come down,
Ere Nature spreads her woven mat of grass
Above the rest that she has found at last;
Above the spot where toil cannot encroach,
Where busy Care is crushed and overpast,
Where clutching shapes of Greed dare not approach.
I do not grieve as one who mourning stands;
I do not bow the head or bend the knee;
I see in fancy those poor work-worn hands,
I think how very tired she used to be!
I think of weary feet that onward pres't,
The look of anxious care she always wore;
I know how good to her is this long rest,
And pray that it is sleep for evermore!
First published in The Australian Town and Country Journal, 21 December 1904
