  “Poor little Joe!” the poet said, When it was told him she was dead;— “Poor little Joe!” the warm tears start From the deep fountains of his heart;— “Poor little Joe!” he loved her so. “Poor little Joe!” he knows too well What darkness on his darling fell, When, in her loneliness and pain, “Papa!” she called,—but called in vain;— “Poor little Joe!” she missed him so. “Poor little Joe!” she loved him so, And wished to stay, yet longed to go;— One fond caress, one sweet “Good-night,” Had made the way to heaven so bright! |
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