How early she went from our hearth and our
The youngest of all, yet the first called away,
And oh, but the sorrow was sore!
No losses nor partings till then had we seen;
No discord, no changes among us had been;
No death in our dwelling before.
At times we are weary and sad for her yet;
I know that my mother will never forget.
She says it is sinful to grieve;
But we miss the blithe tone, and we miss the
And her seat by the fire is a sorrowful place,
At the fall of the dark winter eve.
For now in the churchyard our hearts have a Share;
Since over the sleep of our sister there,
The grass of the summer-time grows.
But have we not learned that a better home lies
Above the green grave, and above the blue skies!
And there we’ll meet our little Rose.