Poems (Holley)/Our Bird
OUR BIRD.
She lay asleep, and her face shone white As under a snowy veil,And the waxen hands clasped on her breast. Were full of snowdrops pale;But a holy calm touched the baby lips, The brow, and the sleeping eyes,The look of an angel pitying us From the peace of Paradise.
And now though she lies 'neath the coffin-lid, We cannot think her dead;But we think of her as of some delicate bird. To a milder country fled.'Twas a long, dark flight for our gentle dove, Our bird so tender and fair;But we know she has reached the summer land And folded her white wings there.