A Household Dirge

A Household Dirge

I've lost my little May at last;

She perished in the spring,

When earliest flowers began to bud,

And earliest birds to sing;

I laid her in a country grav,

A green and soft retreat,

A marble tablet o'er her head,

And violets at her feet.

I would that she were back again,

In all her childish bloom;

My joy and hope have followed her,

My heart is in her tomb;

I know that she has gone away,

I know that she has fled.

I miss her everywhere, and yet

I cannot think her dead!

I sit within my quiet room

Alone, and write for hours,

And miss the little May again

Among the window flowers;

And miss her with her toys beside

My desk in silent play;

And then I turn and look for her,

But she has flown away,

I drop my idle pen, and hark,

And catch the fintest sound;

She must be playing hide-and-seek

In shady nooks around;

She'll come and climb my chair again,

And peep my shoulders o'er;

I hear a stifled laugh—but no,

She cometh never more!

I waited only yester-night

The evening service read,

And lingered for my idol's kiss

Before she went to bed;

Forgetting she had gone before,

In slumbers soft and sweet;

A marble tablet at her head,

And violets at her feet!

Unattributed

1:15, p. 1

10.29.1857