Classic Poem

Over the far-flung purple moor,
'Mid the white funeral banners borne,
Slowly they take thee, thou who rose
With the wild-fowl at break of dawn.
And they must hide thee far away
As sunset hills hide out the day.
Thy little son, a memory
Of thy dear self, weeps bitter tears,
And seeks for comfort in my arms.
I fondle him, to soothe his fears;
But with a man's unskillful hand,
Lacking the tender touch that cheers.
Our chamber, now so desolate,
Where once so close our pillows lay!
The night is filled with loneliness,
And sorrow darkens all the day. . . .