ALONG her coffin-lid the spotless roses rest
A father’s sad, sad hand culled from a happy bower;
Earth, they were born of thee: take back upon thy breast
Young child and tender flower.
To this unhallowed world, ah! let them not return,
To this dark world where grief and sin and anguish lower;
The winds might wound and break, the sun might parch and burn
Young child and tender flower.
Thou sleepest, O Elise! thy years were brief and bright;
The burden and the heat are spared thy noonday hour;
For dewy morn has flown, and on its pinions light,
Young child and tender flower.