The little, little child that went away
From us that loved him, us that miss him so—
God, fold him warmly in thy tender arms
These bitter nights beneath the snow.
Years pass us by; sometimes we half forget
The little lad who went so long ago;
But with the first sob of the winter's rain,
And with the first fall of the snow,
Oh, then, oh, then we bow ourselves and weep,
The old grief fresh; it seems but yesterday
We knelt in tears to kiss the little lad
Good-by, and let him go away.
The summer lures us; lo! the slender brook
Winds thro' the valley, noted like a song;
When trees are budding and the flowers bloom,
Oh, then we cannot sorrow long.
But when the winter huddles from the North,
And drives the sudden snow across the plain,
When long icicles fringe the eaves, and loud
The wind is moaning at the pane,
We look thro' tears across the night and see
The little grave so slender and so low. . . .
God, fold him warmly in thy tender arms
These bitter nights beneath the snow.
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