It was a little grave—
So little, you could almost think the sexton
Had, in his weary labour, left a sod—
A single sod, upon the churchyard grass,
Intending to remove it when he saw
The mould appearing through a larger grave.
And yet it was a grave whose tiny chasm
Held the dear ashes of a little one
Whose life was far too good, and fair, and beautiful
For this black world of ours to touch and soil.
And so it pass'd away, as will a flower
That feels the frost of Autumn. Day by day
The cheek grew bright and brighter as the soul
Wearied for freedom; and to bend and look
Upon the features one could almost think
That Heaven itself could make no change, but set
A golden crown upon the little head,
And flowing raiment on the little form,
To fit it for some pitying angel's breast.
So all was finish'd, and it went away;
And there were bitter tears around the bed,
And many wishes, such as ever spring
From the rich soil within the tender breast
Of her who is a mother, and whose grief
Is so within itself that none can know
Its depth or feeling: it is much akin
To theirs whose soul is on the very edge
Of an eternity, and who, to give
Comfort to those around, will utter words
Of faith, and hope, and love, and happier meetings
Within another land, where there shall be
No more disunions, and have but to turn
An eye within, and find a hopeless gloom.
So was the mother's grief. But she had Hope,
Who whisper'd to her of a better time,
When she, for surety, would receive again
The firstling of her womb from Him whose kingdom
Is made of such, and, in a brighter bloom
Than in its gladdest days upon the earth
When life was in its flush, and Death had set
No mark upon the little brow, to show
The sepulchre its consecrated own.
O, dear, dear ashes that are nought but dross
To the sweet spirit that in realms above
Blooms in all purity, and yet our hearts
Must linger, like a miser at his gold,
Around the little sod that hides the form
That heaven gave to us for such a short
And fleeting period.
Now years have come
And flung a calm upon this grief of ours,
And we can look within the past, and find
That all was fraught with wisdom, and can bend
A knee to the Almighty, with a heart
Purer and freer from unholy wishes
Than when we laid it, with a bitter heart,
Within the chambers of an early grave.