In beauty as He moulded her,
Four years ago God gathered her—
A tender lamb, and folded her—
An orphan child, and fathered her.

I stand beside the grave of her,
And know that lying shattered there
Is nothing that I crave of her,
For dust alone is scattered there.

But springing like the flowers on it,
My thoughts spring in the heart of me;
I face the silent powers on it,
Nor fear that death is part of me.