Classic Poem

She moved about with quiet tread,
With weary steps we still remember;
The sunshine kissed her drooping head,
Like golden leaves in sad September.
But though the chilling winds would shake,
As yet they only breathed a warning;
And though she slept, she still would wake,
And still we found her with the morning.

Her every act, and all her words,
Were flowers untimely in October,
That gladdened faintly when the birds
Grown silent, left us grave and sober.
We scarcely felt that we were glad
To have her yet a little longer,
We dared not think that we were sad
She did not leave us to be stronger.

We knew she was not yet to go —
Alas! the little while was fleeting —
She fed a robin in the snow,
She kissed us for a New Year's greeting;
But when the snowdrops trembling hung,
Then bowed we dumbly, sorrow-laden.
The Angel of the Lord had flung
A snow-white robe around the maiden.