Our Idol

Our Idol

Close the door lightly,

Bridle the breath,

Our little earth Angel

Is talking with death;

Gently he wooes her,

She wishes to stay,

His arms are about her—

He bears her away!

Music comes floating

Down from the dome;

Angels are chanting

The sweet welcome home.

Come, strieken weeper!

Come to the bed,

Gaze on the sleeper—

Our idol is dead!

Smooth out the ringlets,

Close the blue eyes—

No wonder such beauty

Was claimed in the skies

Cross the hands gently

O'er the white breast,

So like a wild spirit

Strayed from the blest,

Bear her out softly,

This idol of ours,

Let her grave slumbers

Be mid the sweet flowers.

Unattributed

1:17, p. 1

11.12.1859