And the drift has enfolded it safe from the storm—
Is there something yet under the snow?
Something near to the heart down under the snow,
That has robbed the wan cheek of its once carmine glow,
That has stolen the beam of the eye—tears instead
Bespeak how in anguish the sore heart hath bled
For a little child under the snow.
For a dear little prattler that littered the floor,
And laughed as he tumbled your work o’er and o’er
For a little gold head that made sunny the room,