Classic Poem

(M.H.)

The sun threw down a radiant spot
  On the face in the winding-sheet—
The face it had lit when a babe's in its cot;
And the sun knew not, and the face knew not
  That soon they would no more meet.

Now that the grave has shut its door,
  And lets not in one ray,
Do they wonder that they meet no more—
That face and its beaming visitor—
  That met so many a day?
 
December 1915