When Bessie Died
by
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.