by Mrs. S. A. Collins
Little we thought, in the bright light of morning,
As she awoke so blithesome and gay,
That the sun would go down, in the midst of our mourning,
And Ethel, a corpse, at the close of day.
But the Reaper had need of that little bud
As he gathered his garlands, so fair;
He paused not, to ask could he claim it his own,
But tenderly touched those bright ringlets of hair.
And like a dew-drop, that sweet little bud,
More fair than the choicest of flowers,
Has vanished from sight, and today we must wonder,
Why he took that sweet bud, from those sad hearts of ours.
Parents! Oh, fain would we lighten your burden,
And oft shed sympathy's tear,
But words are as nothing, no need of their utterance,
As we stand together, around Ethel's bier.
We loved her you know, with a love that is lasting,
Her memory all cherished shall be.
May God heal the wound which now seems past healing,
For she has gone, with the angels to be.