Classic Poem

Sing a song with sorrow laden,
Sing a requiem sad and slow,
For the pure and gentle maiden
Lying with her head so low.
Loving was she, sweet and mild,
Half a woman, half a child.

Hands so helpful, past the telling,
Ah, how soon your work is done!
Feet so light, so fleet, so willing,
Ah, how soon your race is run!
Bright her morning rose, and yet
Ere its prime her sun is set.

In the great world's swelling surges —
Ceaseless strife of loss and gain —
Drowned are sorrow's mournful dirges,
Sobs of anguish, cries of pain.
Why for her such tears should flow,
Only we who loved her know.

Keen the wind that sweeps the prairie;
Keener yet the bitter breath
Blown from off the borders dreary
Of the silent realm of Death.
And we shiver — shrink with dread,
As we cover up our dead.

Hard is parting — hard to sever
Ties that bleed at every strand;
And the gap shall close, ah, never,
In that broken household band.
Yet, while we perforce must weep,
Sleep, O maiden! sweetly sleep.

O'er the snows, descending lightly,
Softly fold their ermine screen;
Choicest flowers shall blossom brightly;
Grasses wave their banners green,
Summer breezes, stealing nigh,
These shall breathe thy lullaby.

Tender is our common mother,
Shielding from the storm and strife,
While Hope whispers of another,
And a brighter, better life.
Even amid our blinding tears,
Faith serene consoles and cheers.