Select Poetry.

Hawke's Bay Times, Volume 6, Issue 328, 30 November 1865, Page 1

Select 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 hud made that day. Ah, they did not know how deep a shade That little grave in our home had 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 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 snek and the 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 the guileless dead. ’Tis a little grave; but O. have care, For 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 hoy.