<h2><SPAN name="page38"></SPAN><span class="pagenum"></span>THE LITTLE WHITE HEARSE</h2>
<p class="poetry">Somebody’s baby was buried
to-day—<br/>
The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled
back,<br/>
And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay<br/>
As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way,<br/>
And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s
golden tract.</p>
<p class="poetry">Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest,<br/>
White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold,<br/>
And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast,<br/>
And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed<br/>
With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.</p>
<p class="poetry">Somebody saw it go out of her sight,<br/>
Under the coffin lid—out through the door;<br/>
Somebody finds only darkness and blight<br/>
All through the glory of summer-sun light;<br/>
Somebody’s baby will waken no more.</p>
<p class="poetry"><SPAN name="page39"></SPAN><span class="pagenum">p.
39</span>Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep:<br/>
I know not her name, but I echo her cry,<br/>
For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep,<br/>
The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep<br/>
In the little white hearse that went rumbling
by.</p>
<p class="poetry">I know not her name, but her sorrow I know;<br/>
While I paused on the crossing I lived it once
more,<br/>
And back to my heart surged that river of woe<br/>
That but in the breast of a mother can flow;<br/>
For the little white hearse has been, too, at
<i>my</i> door.</p>
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