Now bright’ning the darkness and chill of the tomb,
That is dreaming out under the snow.
Only resting awhile in garments all white,
Away from the blackness and sin of to-night;
Away from the vice and the wrong of the street,
Not heeding the song of the rain or the sleet,
Still sleeping down under the snow.
How many a mother her darling would lay
In the last, narrow home—hide her treasure away—
If only to know its soul was at rest