Classic Poem

Little Miss Fanny has fallen asleep,
No need to step softly, her slumber is deep;
'Twas just at the dawning, she called to us low,
And whispered “Good-bye, I am ready to go,
I lean on the arm of the Mighty, and He
My Guide through the valley of shadows will be.”

So she passed on before us; the great world around
Is throbbing and calling, she hears not a sound:
Her work is all ended, the rise and the fall
Of life's tidal waters she heeds not at all.
O, strangest of all things! when over her breast
These pale slender fingers in idleness rest.

How much we shall miss her; a hundred might go
From wide, shining circles of fashion and show,
And the world be no poorer in goodness or trust,
In patience or meekness, but O, when this dust
Unto dust shall be rendered! how many will say,
“A cloud has come over the face of the day.”

She was always so earnest, so kind and so true,
So patient with others, so ready to do
The work that lay nearest her, taking her place,
With so willing a heart and so smiling a face,
That oft when the heart of the stoutest would fail,
She would stand in the name of the Lord, and prevail.

How much she has suffered! the griefs she has known
Were whispered in secret to Jesus alone,
And hope's blessed song-birds would soar like the lark,
'Til dear little Fanny could sing in the dark,
For, somehow, there flourished wherever she went,
The beautiful blossoms of joy and content.

We look on her features, 'tis true, they are plain,
They are wrinkled with years, and disfigured by pain,
But we loved her so well, that no painter could trace
With softest of colors, so pleasant a face
For us to look on, as this statue of clay,
This picture of peace that we watch o'er to-day.

In the quiet room yonder, while memories crowd,
Two neighboring women are making a shroud;
'Tis only of muslin—not costly and rare
Is the robe, that in death, little Fanny will wear,
But the women are smiling; they think, as they sew,
Of the wonderful robe that is whiter than snow.

Little Miss Fanny has fallen asleep,
No need to step softly, her slumber is deep;
'Twas just at the dawning, she called to us low,
And whispered “Good-bye, I am ready to go,
I lean on the arm of the Mighty, and He
My Guide through the valley of shadows will be.”

So she passed on before us; the great world around
Is throbbing and calling, she hears not a sound:
Her work is all ended, the rise and the fall
Of life's tidal waters she heeds not at all.
O, strangest of all things! when over her breast
These pale slender fingers in idleness rest.

How much we shall miss her; a hundred might go
From wide, shining circles of fashion and show,
And the world be no poorer in goodness or trust,
In patience or meekness, but O, when this dust
Unto dust shall be rendered! how many will say,
“A cloud has come over the face of the day.”

She was always so earnest, so kind and so true,
So patient with others, so ready to do
The work that lay nearest her, taking her place,
With so willing a heart and so smiling a face,
That oft when the heart of the stoutest would fail,
She would stand in the name of the Lord, and prevail.

How much she has suffered! the griefs she has known
Were whispered in secret to Jesus alone,
And hope's blessed song-birds would soar like the lark,
'Til dear little Fanny could sing in the dark,
For, somehow, there flourished wherever she went,
The beautiful blossoms of joy and content.

We look on her features, 'tis true, they are plain,
They are wrinkled with years, and disfigured by pain,
But we loved her so well, that no painter could trace
With softest of colors, so pleasant a face
For us to look on, as this statue of clay,
This picture of peace that we watch o'er to-day.

In the quiet room yonder, while memories crowd,
Two neighboring women are making a shroud;
'Tis only of muslin—not costly and rare
Is the robe, that in death, little Fanny will wear,
But the women are smiling; they think, as they sew,
Of the wonderful robe that is whiter than snow.