‘True,’ say the children, ‘it may happen
That we die before our time;
Little Alice died last year—her grave is shapen
Like a snowball, in the rime.
We looked into the pit prepared to take her:
Was no room for any work in the close clay!
From the sleep wherein she lieth none will wake her,
Crying, “Get up, little Alice! it is day.”
If you listen by that grave, in sun and shower,
With your ear down, little Alice never cries;