Poems (Chitwood)/The little Girl under the Snow

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

THE LITTLE GIRL UNDER THE SNOW.

They are all asleep; each curl-swept head
 Rests on its pillow white:
I have stolen around to each quiet bed,
 Again and again, to-night.
But now, as I sit in my old arm-chair,
 In the firelight's golden glow,
My heart will go, in its mute despair,
 To the little girl under the snow.

I dare not gaze out on the world to-night,
 But I hear the loud winds roar;
I know the drifts are deep and white
 Around my cottage door.
I bend again o'er each little bed,
 And hear the breathings low
Of my sleeping babes—but oh, the dead!
 The little girl under the snow.

Oh! does she not start, in her dreamless sleep,
 With a low, wild cry of fear!
Sometimes, I think I hear her weep,
 With a mother's listening ear.
Cold, cold is she in her shroud of white,
 In the dismal grave so low:
I would she were here in my arms to-night—
 The little girl under the snow.

Be still, my heart! In the Summer time
 We laid her down to rest;
We said she had gone to a fairer clime—
 She had gone to Jesus' breast;
That He, in His own dear love would keep
 Her safe from another woe—
Oh, should we not envy the dreamless sleep
 Of the little girl under the snow?

And but for the living my tears should be,
 As I think of my little band,
Scattered like blossoms on the sea,
 When the tempest sweeps the land.
Oh, shield them, Father, with Thine own love,
 Wherever their feet may go,
And bring them safe to the home above,
 Of the little girl under the snow.