Mary Shipman Deming

The garner'd Jewel of our heart,
The Darling of our tent!
Cold rains were falling thick and fast,
When forth from us she went.

The sweetest blossom on our tree,
When droop'd her fairy head,
We might not lay her 'mid the flowers,
For all the flowers were dead.

The youngest birdling of our nest,
Her song from us hath fled;
Yet mingles with a purer strain
That floats above our head.

We gaze,--her wings we may not see:
We listen,--all in vain:
But when this wintry life is o'er,
We'll hear her voice again.