in Chapter 20 of Anne’s House of Dreams, Anne is devastated by the death of her first baby. She visits the shore when she recovers, and chats with Captain Jim:

“Here’s a nice little spot where the wind can’t get at you,” said Captain Jim, when they reached the rocks.

“I often sit here. It’s a great place jest to sit and dream.”

“Oh–dreams,” sighed Anne. “I can’t dream now, Captain Jim–I’m done with dreams.”

“Oh, no, you’re not, Mistress Blythe–oh, no, you’re not,” said Captain Jim meditatively. “I know how you feel jest now–but if you keep on living you’ll get glad again, and the first thing you know you’ll be dreaming again–thank the good Lord for it! If it wasn’t for our dreams they might as well bury us. How’d we stand living if it wasn’t for our dream of immortality? And that’s a dream that’s BOUND to come true, Mistress Blythe. You’ll see your little Joyce again some day.”

“But she won’t be my baby,” said Anne, with trembling lips. “Oh, she may be, as Longfellow says, `a fair maiden clothed with celestial grace’–but she’ll be a stranger to me.”

“God will manage better’n THAT, I believe,” said Captain Jim.

Resignation
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
There is no fireside, howsoe’er defended,
But has one vacant chair!

The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,
Will not be comforted!

Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
But oftentimes celestial benedictions
Assume this dark disguise.

We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps
What seem to us but sad, funereal tapers
May be heaven’s distant lamps.

There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Is but a suburb of the life elysian,
Whose portal we call Death.

She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—
But gone unto that school
Where she no longer needs our poor protection,
And Christ himself doth rule.

In that great cloister’s stillness and seclusion,
By guardian angels led,
Safe from temptation, safe from sin’s pollution,
She lives, whom we call dead,

Day after day we think what she is doing
In those bright realms of air;
Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,
Behold her grown more fair.

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken
The bond which nature gives,
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,
May reach her where she lives.

Not as a child shall we again behold her;
For when with raptures wild
In our embraces we again enfold her,
She will not be a child;

”’But a fair maiden, in her Father’s mansion,
Clothed with celestial grace; ”’
And beautiful with all the soul’s expansion
Shall we behold her face.

And though at times impetuous with emotion
And anguish long suppressed,
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,
That cannot be at rest,—

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling
We may not wholly stay;
By silence sanctifying, not concealing,
The grief that must have way.