The Little Mourner. Poem by Henry Alford

``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.''

``Stranger, 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.''