Fold the little waxen hands
Lightly. Let your warmest tears
Speak regrets, but never fears,—
Heaven understands!
Let the sad heart, o'er the tomb,
Lift again and burst in bloom
Fragrant with a prayer as sweet
As the lily at your feet.
Bend and kiss the folded eyes —
They are only feigning sleep
While their truant glances peep
Into Paradise.
See, the face, though cold and white,
Holds a hint of some delight
E'en with Death, whose finger-tips
Rest upon the frozen lips.
When, within the years to come,
Vanished echoes live once more —
Pattering footsteps on the floor,
And the sounds of home,—
Let your arms in fancy fold
Little Harlie as of old —
As of old and as he waits
At the City's golden gates.