I saw a child, with beauteous face,
Sit musing all alone.

Without a shoe, without a hat,
Beside a new-raised mound,
The little Willie pensive sat,
As if to guard the ground.

I asked him why he lingered thus
Within that gray old wall.
"Because," said he, "it is to us
The dearest place of all."

"And what," said I, "to one so young,
Can make the place so dear?"
"Our mother," said the lisping tongue,--
They laid our mother here.

And since they made it mother's lot,
We like to call it ours:
We took it for our garden-spot,
And planted it with flowers.

We know 'twas here that she was laid;
And yet they tell us, too,
She's now a happy angel made,
To live where angels do.

Then she will watch us from above,
And smile on us, to know