They have decked her in burial raiment, they have twined a wreath for her hair;
Ah child, you had never in life such delicate dress to wear!
And the man in the pilgrim’s habit has covered the marble head,
And carried it out for ever to the sleeping place of the dead.
Rest, little one, have no fear, you will hardly turn in your sleep,
Though the moon and the stars are clouded, and the grave they have made be deep!
But an hour before the dawning there will come one down on the night,
With the wings and the brows of an angel, in wonder-robes of white.
He will smile in your eyes of wonder, he will take your hand in his hand,
And gather you up in his arms and pass from the sleeping land.
Then after a while, at morning, you will come to the lands that lie
On the other side of the sunrise between the cloud and the sky,
And here is the place of resting with the wings of your angel furled,
For the feet that are tired with travel in the dusty ways of the world.
And here is the children’s meeting, the length of a summer’s day,
You will gather you crowns of roses, in the deep meadow lands at play.
While up through the clouds dividing, like a sweet bewildering dream,
You will watch the wings of the angels drift by in an endless stream;
Such marvellous robes are o’er them, and whiter are some than snows,
And some like the April blossom, and some like the pale primrose.