The days have vanished golden years,—
       Years but a doleful mem'ry now;
       I hear the dirge of rough winds howl,
Above his grave to mock my tears.

Remem'ring when his strength was low;
       When hunger failed and ceased his play,
       He trod a frail more painful way;
I trust he's now in Thee made whole.

He is not here but far away,
       The driving rain like heaven's tears
       Show'ring his grave for latter years
From skies to match my spirit grey.

With breaking heart I linger nigh,
       Loathe e'er to leave his gloomy bed;
       I wish it could be me instead
Than one so gentle had to die.

He sleeps beneath the sullen sod,
       Beneath harsh sunlight and bleak rain;
       No more to suffer any pain,
While the pure soul rests with his God.

                    **~Hilda~