Classic Poem

How I miss my little girl,
Her who wore this beamy curl;
As I slowly lay it by
Steals a tear behind the sigh.

How I miss my little girl!
Her whose voice, like streamlet's purl,
Babbled low and long and sweet,
Giving lightness to my feet.

How I miss her, even yet!
Nor her faults do I forget,—
Many a time they made me sigh;
What of that if she were by?

Where then have I lost my child?
Into Heaven is she beguiled?
Nay, I strow no little sod,
For she is not yet with God.

But strange powers, they call the Years,
Wrought the loss that brings my tears;
Tiny chair behind the door,
They have emptied evermore.

They have hushed the pleasant noise,
Into darkness cast the toys;
Death, it sometimes seems to me,
Not much crueller could be.

Let me lose my ashen mood
In to-day's ripe motherhood;
Vain my little girl to summon,
But—I own a little woman.