And the golden crown she wears glimmers through the pearly bars.
Oh, once more the sunshine crept through the Autumn trees and slept
On her faded hands crossed meekly borne from out the house of God,
And beside the woodland road wending to her last abode,
Where the April wind had sowed, wept the dewy golden-rod.
OUR BABY.
WHAT is most like her, our baby sweet,
Strayed from the skies on yester-even,
So newly come that her dimpled feet
Still are missed in the gate of Heaven,
Where the angels kissed them and bade them go.
What is most like her? Don't you know?
The bud of a rose, — of a moss-rose, fair,
Flushed and dainty, a folded flower,
The blossom a woman is fain to wear
Over the heart. May sun and shower
Brim her cup to the overflow
With dewy perfumes, if this be so.
