The Last Gift Poem by Grace Greenwood

I LEAVE thee, love! In vain hast thou
The God of life implored;
My clinging soul is torn from thine,
My faithful, my adored!
My last gift, — I have on it breathed
I'm blessing and in prayer;
So lay it close, close to thy heart,
This little lock of hair!

I know thou wilt think tenderly
And lovingly on me,
Thou wilt forget my waywardness,
When I am gone from thee;
Thou wilt remember all my love,
Which made thee think me fair;
Thou wilt with many tears be-gem
This little lock of hair!

And yet, at last, thy grief's wild storm
Will sigh itself to rest;
Then thou mayst choose another love,
And clasp her to thy breast;
But when she hides her glowing face
In tearful gladness there,
O, do not let her hand displace
This little lock of hair!

The dark, rich hue thou oft hast praised,
This ringlet still shall hold;
Still, as the sunlight on it falls,
Give out quick gleams of gold.
Though years roll by, no trace of change
Its glossy rings shall wear;
It never will grow gray, beloved,
This little lock of hair!

And when the earth weighs chill and damp
Above my resting-place,
When fall moist tresses heavily
Around my cold, dead face,
'T is sweet to know a part of me
Thine own life-glow may share.
Thou 'lt keep it warm, love, always warm,
This little lock of hair!

Ah, dearest, see how pale and cold
Has grown this hand of mine!
No longer now it glows and thrills
Within the clasp of thine;
I go! — soon, where my dying head
Is pillowed with fond care,
No trace of me shall linger, save
This little lock of hair.

I see thee not! — I faintly feel
The fast tears thou dost weep;
Kiss down my quivering eyelids, love,
Thus, thus, and I will sleep.
I go where angels beckon me,
I go their heaven to share;
Yet, with a longing envy, leave
This little lock of hair!