Her grave is on the hillside where she lays
Among the trees and flowers and natures ways:
Of Summer, Autumn, winter, spring,
And all that natures made to bring.
I sometimes stand there by her grave
And think of lives we tried to save;
Our baby boy, a few months old
Who lies with her in that ground so
Cold.
He brought us joy and sorrow, both,
But must have known this world is loathe
To keep a treasure so divine,
So pure and loving, and so fine.
I know, of course, that they both sleep,
Like winter's snow lies thick and deep;
Unseen, then life beneath begins to wake,
Rising from sleep, its life, death cannot take.
Among the trees and flowers and natures ways:
Of Summer, Autumn, winter, spring,
And all that natures made to bring.
I sometimes stand there by her grave
And think of lives we tried to save;
Our baby boy, a few months old
Who lies with her in that ground so
Cold.
He brought us joy and sorrow, both,
But must have known this world is loathe
To keep a treasure so divine,
So pure and loving, and so fine.
I know, of course, that they both sleep,
Like winter's snow lies thick and deep;
Unseen, then life beneath begins to wake,
Rising from sleep, its life, death cannot take.