Somebody’s baby was buried to-day—
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back,
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay
As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way,
And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden tract.
Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,
And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast,
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.
Somebody saw it go out of her sight,
Under the coffin lid—out through the door;
Somebody finds only darkness and blight
All through the glory of summer-sun light;
Somebody’s baby will waken no more.
Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:
I know not her name, but I echo her cry,
For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep,
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep
In the little white hearse that went rumbling by.
I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;
While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more,
And back to my heart surged that river of woe
That but in the breast of a mother can flow;
For the little white hearse has been, too, at _my_ door.
REALISATION
(At the Old Homestead)
I tread the paths of earlier times
Where all my steps were set to rhymes.
I gaze on scenes I used to see
When dreaming of a vague To be.
I walk in ways made bright of old
By hopes youth-limned in hues of gold.
But lo! those hopes of future bliss
Seem dull beside the joy that _is_.
My noonday skies are far more bright
Than those dreamed of in morning’s light,
And life gives me more joys to hold
Than all it promised me of old.