While children glad go softly by
With timid step and tearful eye.
Too well I know that thou art gone,
Thy brow is cold, thy cheek is wan;
Pale buds are in thy sunny hair,
Thy chill hands clasp a lily fair,
A shroud, with white and moveless fold,
Lies on thy heart so still and cold;
And yet not thus I think of thee—
Thou art not dead, beloved, to me.