Classic Poem

Ere from the brow its childish grace,
Or from the lips the tone
That told of childhood's sinless days
In melody had flown;
The heart in darkness weeps alone,
Her gentle presence fled,
Her spirit with th' Eternal One,
Her beauty with the dead.

Aye, leave the soft light on the brow,
Stir not one fallen tress,
For death's cold hand hath hallowed now
Each line of loveliness;
And let the silken lashes press
Thus lightly o'er her eyes,
As like a thing of holiness
All beautiful she lies.

Aye, leave her to her holy rest,
Amid her own loved flowers,
And be the quiet of her breast
As healing peace to ours.
As earth returns to summer showers
The treasures of its trust,
Shall Heaven restore in holier hours
Our loved ones from the dust.