As always, she tried to make the best of adversity. In a poem entitled “The Widow’s Prayer,” which was published along with Glover’s obituary in the Freemasons’ Monthly Magazine, she wrote:

          For trials past I would not grieve, 
                But count my mercies o’er;
          And teach the heart Thou hast bereaved 
                Thy goodness to adore.
          Thou gavest me friends, in my distress, 
                 Like manna from above;
          Thy mercy ever I’ll confess, 
                 And own a Father’s love.¹¹

Yet a bright hope lay extinguished in George Glover’s grave: the promise of romantic escape to freedom and fulfillment. There had scarcely been time for the young couple’s love to grow deep roots, but her grief was probably no less sharp for that. A special poignancy attaches to the eager hope that is cut down before it has had a chance to measure itself against life.

Something of this is suggested in another poem Mrs. Glover wrote a little later, called “Wind of the South.” Carried back in thought by that “gay restless essence,” the south wind, the author confronts George Glover’s grave in an image whose sudden, flawed beauty has just a touch of the dark lyricism of the Jacobean poets:

Oh say do worms dare revel round 
The casket where no gems can rust?
Hath loveliness a level found
Beneath the cold and common dust?¹²

It was her farewell to the more romantic dreams of youth.