by James Whitcomb Riley
Fold the little waxen hands
Lightly. Let your warmest tears
Speak regrets, but never fears,--
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
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.
Last updated January 14, 2019