When Bessie Died

If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; If the white feet into the grave had tripped—" When Bessie died— We braided the brown hair, and tied It just as her own little hands Had fastened back the silken strands A thousand times—the crimson bit Of ribbon woven into it That she had worn with childish pride— Smoothed down the dainty bow—and cried When Bessie died. When Bessie died— We drew the nursery blinds aside, And as the morning in the room Burst like a primrose into bloom, Her pet canary's cage we hung Where she might hear him when he sung— And yet not any note he tried, Though she lay listening folded-eyed. When Bessie died— We writhed in prayer unsatisfied: We begged of God, and He did smile In silence on us all the while; And we did see Him, through our tears, Enfolding that fair form of hers, She laughing back against His love The kisses had nothing of— And death to us He still denied, When Bessie died— When Bessie died.