Nora

Nora

[The "Evening Post" publishes the following exquisite little poem, with a paragraph stating that it was received with a note, not from its author, to the effect that "it was written as a dirge for a friend—a young, gifted, and highly cultivated woman—who, after a long struggle with poverty and wasting sickness, just as she had found shelter in a loving, manly heart, died last New Year's eve, and on New Year's day, 1860, lay dead in her bridal robes in the chapel of the New York University."]

Nora is dying as well as the year,

And mine is the sad, sweet task

To smooth her pillow, and sit by her side,

And tell what her soft eyes ask.

The tresses over my finger glide,

As I braid her long brown hair,

And twine it around her queenly brow,

Ere the death-damp settles there.

Nora is dying—is leaving the world—

Is passing out to the night—

The one brief night that lies between us

And the morn of eternal light.

Nora is dying, but I am calm—

I willingly let her go—

It is not best all women should live,

God and the angels know.

Some women must suffer, some women must weep

And 'tis better that they should die

Than harrow the souls of those the love

With a broken heart's long cry.

* * * * * * * *

Nora is dead, as well as the year—

Silent and white she lies,

And the beautiful light of her beautiful soul

Has gone from her beautiful eyes.

Close them gently, and press a last kiss

On her lips, O heart of despair,

Then leave me alone to twine the white flowers

In the braids of her long brown hair.

And let them bring me her bridal dress,

Nora wished it before she died—

Wished me to make her toilet in death

The same as she wore thy bride.

Nora is dead, and yet I am calm—

I willingly let her go:

It is not best all women should live,

God and the angels know.

Sarah Shelley Olemmer

1:33, p. 1

3.3.1860