I miss them as others miss sunshine and flowers. Day-time or night-time, wherever I go, Dear little hands, I miss them so. Dear little hands they are gone from me now, Never again will they rest on my brow, Never again smooth my sorrowful face, Never clasp me in a childish embrace; And now my forehead grows wrinkled with care, Thinking of little hands once resting there. But I know in a happier, heav'nlier clime, Dear little hands, I will clasp you in mine. Dear little hands, when the Master shall call, I'll welcome the summons that comes to us all. When my feet touch the waters so And I catch my first glimpse of the If I keep my eyes fixed on the heavenly gate, Over the tide where the white-robed ones wait, Shall I know you, I wonder, among the bright bands, Will you beckon me over, oh, dear little hands? ANONYMOUS. THE PITCHER OF TEARS THERE went a widow woman from the outskirts of the city, Whose lonely sorrow might have moved the stones she trod to pity. She wandered weeping through the fields, by God and man forsaken, Still calling on the little child the Reaper, Death, had taken. When lo! upon a day, she met a whiterobed train advancing, And brightly on their golden heads their golden crowns were glancing, Child Jesus led a happy band of little ones a-Maying— With flowers of spring, and gems of dew, all innocently playing. Far from the rest the widow sees, and flies to clasp her treasure! "What ails thee darling that thou must not take with these thy pleasure?" "O mother, little mother mine, behind the rest I tarry, If For see, how heavy with your tears, the pitcher I must carry! you had ceased to weep for me when Jesus went a-Maying, I should have been among the blest, with little Jesus playing.' EMILY PFEIFFER. ONLY ONLY a little half-worn shoe,-nothing more, Only a ragged broken doll on the floor, Only a little empty bed smooth and white, Only a pair of blue eyes hid from the light. Only two busy hands, idle now, No little voice to ask "Why?" or "How?'' Only a tiny golden curl laid away Where only mother's eyes shall look day by day. Only a little prayer less at twilight, Only no little face to kiss every night, Only a little name to sob o'er and o'er, Only one little form to clasp nevermore. Only a little grave, to tell that she is dead, Only a little lily set at the head, Only a little snowwhite stone with her name, Dates to tell when she left us,-when she came. Only a memory, vanished quite from the earth, Save the memory in heart who gave her birth; Only this was her little life, this her death, A short sweet fragrance, fleeting soon, like her breath. ANONYMOUS |