Into the fair and cloudless summer skies.
The people round her sing, “Above the sky
There’s rest for little children when they die.”
To her, thus gazing up, that rest seems nigh.
The organ peals; she must not look around,
Although with wonderment her pulses bound—
The place whereon she stands is holy ground.
The sermon over, and the blessing said,
She bows, as “mother” does, her golden head,
And thinks of little sister who is dead.