A newer weight of sorrow?
No longer will you clothe her form, to fold her
Around, and wrap her, hold her.
A hard, unwaking sleep has overpowered
Her limbs, and now the flowered
Cool muslin and the ribbon snoods are bootless,
The gilded girdles fruitless.
My little girl, ’twas to a bed far other
That one day thy poor mother
Had thought to lead thee, and this simple dower