By Fred Willoughby
June 28, 1865. Vol. 1. No. 39. Page 1
I call to mind a little head
Crowned with its golden hair;
And a face so pure, so meek, I’m sure
That such the angels wear!
That little head, the golden hair,
The face, are ‘neath the sod;
And what so bright gave us delight,
Is now above with God!
Those little feet, that music made
Like rain that patters down,
Lie still and cold beneath the world
Where buds and grass are strewn!
Oh, if our lives—her mother’s, mine,--
Are made as pure as hers,
We pray, when death has hushed our breath,
Pass to the hither shores!