EDITH.
Weep not, weep not, that in the spring
We have to make a grave;
The flowers will grow, the birds will sing,
The early roses wave;
And make the sod we're spreading fair,
For her who sleeps below:
We might not bear to lay her there
In winter frost and snow.
We never hoped to keep her long,
When but a fairy child,
With dancing step, and birdlike song,
And eyes that only smiled;
