Page:Poems Eaton.djvu/33

Dear little Luna! nevermore
 Her lips to ours in love may press,
Her brief day-dream of life is o'er,
 And stilled in death the fond caress;
But as the weary days roll by,
 We sometimes feel she may be near,
And vainly turn with longing sigh;
 Her look to meet, her voice to hear.

Oh! were it not, that He who gives
 In taking but recalls His own,
Where were our refuge when we grieve
 O'er earthly idols, shattered, flown?
But He is Love, undying, pure—
 And though the cherished form has fled,
Guarded by Him whose word is sure,
 She lives in heaven, whom we call dead.

Dead! 'tis too harsh, too cold a word
 For her who gained a heavenly home;
Rather the Saviour's voice she heard,
 "To me let little children come"—
And thrilled with joy by music deep,
 Sweet echoes of a seraph's tune,
In angel arms she fell asleep,
 Beneath the sunny skies of June.