The silver brooks will miss thee,
The breeze that used to kiss thee,
And ruffle with a soft caress thy curls of sunny hair;
When the early dewdrops glisten
On the roses, they will listen
For thy step upon the garden walk, thy laughter in the air.
The meadows gay with flowers,
The summer’s leafy bowers,
Will know thy joyous smile no more; the woodlands stand forlorn;
I hear the soft complaining
Of birds, from mirth refraining.
That greeted with their carols sweet thy waking every morn.
Poor mother! hush thy weeping
Above thy darling sleeping,
Nor fret with aught of earthly grief the stillness where he lies,
Flowers in his little fingers,
Where the rosy flush still lingers,
For the angels are his playmates on the plains of Paradise.