They write to me of
her funeral, of the white flowers beside her head, and of her own lilies of the
valley strewn over her in the grave by one who knew how she loved them.
Everything that would have made her happy, had her eyes been open to see, and
her ears to hear. They sang the hymns she loved, "Rock of Ages," and
"I would not live alway," and "Thy will be done." And my
dear friend is free!—her soul has blossomed into heavenly light! I told her
once that this book was for only her to see; I do not like my thoughts when I
think them for myself alone; and there is no other friend who would care as she
cared. Will she read them now?
SOURCE: Daniel
Dulany Addison, “Lucy Larcom: Life, Letters, and Diary,” p. 92
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