Only a secret, chance disclosed,
Whence secret should be never,
A doubt crept into the heart that loved
And its light went out forever.
Only a prayer, a wrong confessed,
By suppliant lowly kneeling,
Opened the gate where the angels wait,
Life's Eden field revealing.
Careful then scatter the little things,
They make life drear and lonely,
Or strew its way with flowers gay,—
We live by trifles only.
SOMEBODY'S BABY'S DEAD.
A hearse all draped in mourning,
With white plumes overhead,
Bearing a little coffin—
Somebody's baby's dead.
Upon the velvet cover
Some hand has placed a wreath,
White as the waxen features
Of the baby that lies beneath.
Out in the graveyard making
A rest for a shining head,
Somebody's heart is breaking,
Somebody's baby's dead.
Over a baby's coffin,
Heaping a mound of clay,
Somebody's hopes are buried
In that little grave to-day.
Somebody's home is dreary,
Somebody's sunshine fled,
Somebody's sad and weary,
Somebody's baby's dead.