A GRAVE sweet wonder in thy baby face,

And look of mingled dignity and grace,

Such as a painter hand might love to trace.

A pair of trusting innocent blue eyes,

That higher than the stained-glass window rise,

Into the fair and cloudless summer skies.

The people round her sing, “Above the sky

There’s rest for little children when they die.”

To her, thus gazing up, that rest seems nigh.

The organ peals; she must not look around,

Although with wonderment her pulses bound—

The place whereon she stands is holy ground.

The sermon over, and the blessing said,

She bows, as “mother” does, her golden head,

And thinks of little sister who is dead.

She knows that now she dwells above the sky,

Where holy children enter when they die,

And prays God take her there too, by and by.

Pet, may He keep you in the faith alway,

And bring you to that home for which you pray,

Where all shall have their child hearts back one day!