  The sharpest pang, the tenderest tear, Not yet are known to thee, Unless thy heart has learned how dear A little grave can be. A little grave—but oh, how wide The room it left for grief! A grief which, like the ebbing tide, Returns without relief. Dear child! by death made doubly dear,— God grant it may not be That thou in heaven should’st ever hear How much we mourn for thee. One after one the seasons wane,— Our loss, it grows not less; Time’s balm is vain to heal the pain Of such a loneliness. The path by Sorrow trod, Sometimes the sunset’s golden glow Rests on thy daisied sod;— And then we feel that God is good, And we take heart again,— Assured 'twill all be understood Where there is no more pain. Where there is no more pain—’tis there, ’Tis there we long to be! O Thou, who didst our sorrows bear, Bring us to dwell with Thee. Where there is no more pain—how blest Love’s kingdom, fadeless, fair! That blissful rest naught shall molest,— Death cannot enter there.
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