Page:Poems of Mrs. Frances B.M. Brotherson.djvu/29

And I sit and think, as the snow-flakes fall,
Of one who sleeps 'neath their pure white pall,
A graceful form—from our vision hid—
A fair face—under the coffin lid;
I hear no tones like his pleasant voice,
No words like his make my heart rejoice,
And a requiem strain floats around life's way,
For the child whose presence has passed away.

In the vanished year, when the white snow fell,
He shouted with gladness his joy to tell,
That voice of sweetness, so clear and fair,
We heard its music, now here, now there;
And over the ice-bound and snow-clad street,
Rang the tireless tread of those little feet,
Quiet their echoes—they faded away
From their wonted pathway one winter's day.

I sit and think how the years will go,
Blest by the fall of the beautiful snow—
That greetings shall echo from young, red lips,
While his shall be sealed amid Death's eclipse;
I shall hear the mirth of each boyish band,
And turn to think of his folded hand,
And the sunshine streaming from yonder sky
Shall waken thoughts of his slumbering eye.