Classic Poem

She twined her arms about the cross
And bowed her little head;
So clasp the only link between
Our sorrow and our dead.

The pure white marble felt her cheek
Cling with that mute caress
That mothers know; that may not speak
To other tenderness.

Yes, fold thy pinions round the cross,
Sweet dove, and feel no fear;
No note but one of tenderness
Shall ever meet thee here.

And from these mounds of sacred earth
Our sundered hearts between,
Draw thou the fragrance of their worth
To keep their memory green.

It must have answered, for her smile
Grew as an angel's fair;
And soft hands, in a little while,
Laid little Katie there.