  SO still you sleep upon your bed, So motionless and slender, It cannot be that you are dead, My little maiden tender. You were no creature pale and meek That death should hasten after, The red rose bloomed upon your cheek, Your lips were made for laughter. To you the great world was a place That care might never stay in, A playground built by God’s good grace For happy folks to play in. You made your footpath by life’s flowers, O happy little maiden, The sky was full of shine and showers, The wind was perfume-laden. I came and found you sweet and wild, Love—only love—could tame you, To think, O pretty thoughtless child That greedy death must claim you. Your dimpled hands are folded now Above the snowy bosom, The lilies creep and kiss your brow, O tender broken blossom! The white lids hide the eyes so clear, So witching and beguiling, But as my tears fall on you dear Your lips seem softly smiling. And do you feel that it is home, The City we call heaven? Ah! were they glad to have you come, My little maid of seven? Methinks when you stand all in white To learn each sweet new duty, Some eye will note with keen delight Your radiance and beauty. And when your laughter softly rings Out where God’s streets do glisten, The angels fair will fold their wings And still their song to listen. [Decorative image unavailable.] |
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