Kissing the snow of that fair young brow;
Pale are the lips of delicate mould—
Somebody’s darling is dying now.
Back from his beautiful, blue-veined brow
Brush all the wandering waves of gold,
Cross his hands on his bosom now,
Somebody’s darling is still and cold.
Kiss him once for somebody’s sake,
Murmur a prayer soft and low;
One bright curl from its fair mates take,—