She Who is Gone From our Sight

Today we celebrate the long life of my aunt, Elaine Showalter Smith, shown here--still performing remarkably well at age 94--with her daughter, my double-cousin Carol Witherell.

 
Aunt Elaine died yesterday at age 99 years, 6 months and 16 days. She was my father's sister and the wife of my mother's late brother, J. Stanford Smith.

Coincidentally, on The Writer's Almanac today appeared this poem by Ella Wheeler Wilcox. I found it apropos of the moment. It is titled "Solitude"

Laugh. and the world laughs with you;

Weep, and you weep alone.
For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
But has trouble enough of its own.
Sing, and the hills will answer;
Sigh, it is lost on the air.
The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
But shrink from voicing care.

Rejoice, and men will seek you;
Grieve, and they turn and go.
They want full measure of all your pleasure,
But they do not need your woe.
Be glad, and your friends are many;
Be sad, and you lose them all.
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life's gall.

Feast, and your halls are crowded;
Fast, and the world goes by.
Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
But no man can help you die.
There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file on
Through the narrow aisles of pain. 

But there are times when others do grieve with you.
Today is such a day: we grieve the loss
of my marvelous aunt but
rejoice in the memory of her life and

know that the halls of heaven are crowded

with a large chorus of family and friends.
They gather round her piano; 

they sing her lively hymns and

welcome her: she who is gone from our sight.

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