The First Snowfall

Reading this poem today with my AP Lang/American Lit students and I was astounded at how perfectly this poem speaks to me. (Poor James Russell Lowell; he buried three children. I can't even imagine--don't want to.) The healing that comes from the Lord, from the seasons/passage of time, and from my darling baby girl: this healing is undeniable, and although the pain is still there--the scars still remain--I have found so much joy with sweet Georgia Louise at my side.  In her eyes, I am not a mother who longs for a lost child.  I'm just Mommy.  And God, in His infinite mercy, sent me the most precious little girl to help temper the pain I feel at the thought of the little mound and headstone in Marietta that mark the grave of my William. Georgia loves her mommy with wild, total abandon--sometimes it feels like she loves me with a strength and conviction that surpasses that of just one child. I will always miss my Will.  I will always miss what I lost on May 2nd, 2009.  But the joy that I have found in the wake of that pain is so intense and so sublime that I have to acknowledge how truly blessed I am. "The First Snowfall"        by James Russell Lowell THE SNOW had begun in the gloaming,   And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway   With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock         5   Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree   Was ridged inch deep with pearl. From sheds new-roofed with Carrara   Came Chanticleer’s muffled crow,         10 The stiff rails softened to swan’s-down,   And still fluttered down the snow. I stood and watched by the window   The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds,         15   Like brown leaves whirling by. I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn   Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently,   As did robins the babes in the wood.         20 Up spoke our own little Mabel,   Saying, “Father, who makes it snow?” And I told of the good All-father   Who cares for us here below. Again I looked at the snow-fall,         25   And thought of the leaden sky That arched o’er our first great sorrow,   When that mound was heaped so high. I remembered the gradual patience   That fell from that cloud like snow,         30 Flake by flake, healing and hiding   The scar that renewed our woe. And again to the child I whispered,   “The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father         35   Alone can make it fall!” Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her;   And she, kissing back, could not know That my kiss was given to her [brother],   Folded close under deepening snow.