The Little Mourner

'Child, whither goest thou
Over the snowy hill?
The frost-air nips so keen
That the very clouds are still:
From the golden folding curtains
The sun hath not looked forth,
And brown the snow-mist hangs
Round the mountains to the north.

'Kind stranger, dost thou see
Yonder church-tower rise,
Thrusting its crown of pinnacles
Into the looming skies? —
Thither go I: — keen the morning
Bites, and deep the snow;
But, in spite of them,
Up the frosted hill I go.'

'Child, and what dost thou
When thou shalt be there? —
The chancel-door is shut —
There is no bell for prayer;
Yester-morn and yester-even
Met we there and prayed;
But now none is there
Save the dead lowly laid.'

'Stronger, underneath that tower,
On the western side,
A happy, happy company
In holy peace abide;
My father, and my mother,
And my sisters four —
Their beds are made in swelling turf,
Fronting the western door.'

'Child, if thou speak to them,
They will not answer thee;
They are deep down in earth, —
Thy face they cannot see.
Then wherefore art thou going
Over the snowy hill?
Why seek thy low-laid family
Where they lie cold and still?'

'Stranger, when the summer heats
Would dry their turfy bed,
Duly from this loving hand
With water it is fed;
They must be cleared this morning
From the thick-laid snow;
So now along the frosted field,
Stranger, let me go.'