POETRY.

Globe, Volume XXII, Issue 1925, 26 April 1880, Page 3

POETRY.

THE LITTLE GRAVE. " It's only a little grave," they said, " Only just a child that's dead ;" And so they carelessly turned away From the mound the spade had made that day; Ah ! they did not know how deep a shade That little grave in our home has made. I know the coffin was narrow and small; One yard would have served for an ample pall; And one man in his arms could have borne away The rosewood and its freight of clay; But I know that darling hopes were hid Beneath that little coffin lid. I know that a mother stood that day With folded hands by that form of clay; I know that burning tears were hid 'Neath the drooping lash and aching lid ; And I know that her lip, and cheek, and brow, Were almost as white as her baby's now. I know that some things were hid away— The crimson frock and wrappings gay, The little sock and half-worn shoe, The cap with its plume and tassels blue; And an empty crib, with its covers spread, As white as the face of her guileless dead. " 'Tis a little grave ; but oh! have a care, For many world-wide hopes are buried there; And ye, perhaps, in coming years May see, like her, through blinding tears, How much of light, how much of joy, Is buried with my only boy. —" Chicago Tribune."