Lament VII

Sad trinkets of my little daughter, dresses

That touched her like caresses,

Why do you draw my mournful eyes? To borrow

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

Suits not the bridal hour;

A tiny shroud and gown of her own sewing

She gives thee at thy going.

Thy father brings a clod of earth, a somber

Pillow for thy last slumber.

And so a single casket, scant of measure,

Locks thee and all thy treasure.