But how forlorn the word, how full of woe,
When she who bears it lies beneath the clod.
In vain the orphan child would call her so,—
She comes not back: her place is up with God.
The wintry winds are wailing o'er the snow;
The flowers are dead that once did grace the sod.
Ah, lose not heart! Some flowers may fade in gloom,
But Hope's a plant grows brightest on the tomb!