PANSIES
To My Son
FRANK W. STECHHAN
SOME future day when I am dead, And you will know I am no more,Alone and silently you'll tread The winding path, to the old church door.The past will meet you as a dream, A tide of awakening mem'ries seemAs though to overwhelm you. Forgotten love you thought at restWill hold full sway within your breast; Then tears will flow and dim your eyesFrom trembling lips a prayer will rise For me, asleep, in the church-yard nigh,My name you'll whisper o'er and o'er While strewing pansies o'er my mound.But tho' mine ear be deaf to sound My Spirit bending o'er thee will forgive,And be thy guardian angel while you live.
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