They’ve finished each her mournful task; what were they doing there?
Why did they ply the needle thus, on white unsullied lawn,
And now, because their task is done, why have they thus withdrawn?
The lovely group of busy ones, who fear’d to speak aloud,
Were making for that sleeping dust, its burial dress—its shroud!
And now the mourner stands alone, beside her sleeping boy,
’Tis but a moment—other cares her heart and hands employ,
They’ve clothed him in his burial dress, whose heart beats not beneath,
But still he wears a smile, and looks all beautiful in death;
O, that corruption’s tainting touch should mar so fair a form!