As in his sleep a baby lies
Buried, till waking bids him rise;
As in the acorn trees are hid,
To show themselves when summers bid;
As in the mind dear faces lurk
Unseen till memory's wand shall work:
So sleeps my love within her grave —
Not 'neath that sod,
But there with God!
Alone,
Till, dying, I shall death obey,
And follow her the selfsame way
She went;
Then shall I see her face to face —
The old delight with double grace —
And each to each shall wake from sleep,
Love’s endless fellowship to keep —
Not there,
Beneath that rounded sod,
But there,
In heaven, in life with God!