What makes it be wet spots 'stead o' snow,
When it gets in where it's warm?"
I smiled that day, but seldom now
Does the thought of smiling come;
A phantom shape, a bow of crape,
And my sweet little child went home.
O Father, "Where does the whiteness go?
And whither's the beauty flown?
Why are there 'wet spots 'stead o' snow'
On my cheek as I face the storm?"