Are the others too precious for resting where Robert is taking his rest,
With the pictured face of young Annie lying over the rent in his breast?
Too tender for parting with sweet hearts? Too fair to be crippled or scarred?
My boy! Thank God for these tears—I was growing so bitter and hard!
* * * * * * * *
Now read me a page in the Book, Harry, that goes in your knapsack to-night,
Of the eye that sees when the sparrow grows weary and falters in flight;
Talk of something that's nobler than living, of a Love that is higher than mine,
And faith which has planted its banner where the heavenly camp-fires shine.
Talk of something that watches us softly, as the shadows glide down in the yard;