Classic Poem

Far out in the hush of the mountain land
There lies the grave of a little child;
Unwept by heart and untended by hand—
Alone with the grass and the aspen wild.

It was years ago—so the story goes—
When the “Fifties” rang with the tales of gold,
That they laid her there, 'mid the falling snows,
To sleep alone in the damp and cold.

What mother sobbed with the pangs of woe,
What father grieved as he urged his teams,
Tradition tells not, and we only know
That the child is there in a land of dreams.

It was just last year, when I passed that way,
I saw o'er the mound in the bushes low,
A bird had erected her nest to stay
And sing to the soul of the sleeper below.