We know her not whom once we knew,
Who died it seems e'er death was due—
We know her not; she is asleep;
Our hearts are dumb—we can but weep
That one so young must bid adieu,
Must part so soon from earthly view.

Those tender feet we knew so late
We hear no more; we can but wait
To hear them in the House of God
When dust to dust we tread the sod,
For in that home of homes they wait
For us beside the city's gate.

Those little hands out-held in love,
That in such innocence did move
To fondle each familiar face
Are still—they cannot now embrace
As once they did so like a dove
That weary parents would approve.

Those little lips that met our own
So sweetly when we were alone
No more shall meet the lips of earth,
Sealed up unto another birth;
But when these larger lives have flown
Our lips will meet; she will be known.

Springtime was here—the birds would soon
Have re-appeared—the birds would soon
Have warbled from a new-built nest,
Would soon have felt beneath their breast
The little ones—and such a boon
Had taught them still a sweeter tune.

But of the little ones not all
Will answer to the parent-call,
Not all will learn to rise and fly—
Many are born, but some must die;
Many will rise, but some must fall,
And God knows best for each and all.

This is the hope—we know not how—
This is the hope that lures us now,
That makes the parting less of pain—
The hope that we shall meet again,
And so while unto grief we bow
The road beyond seems brighter now.

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