Somebody’s baby was buried to-day – <br /> The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back, <br />And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay <br />As I paused on the sidewalk while it crossed on its way, <br /> And a shadow seemed drawn o’er the sun’s golden track. <br /> <br />Somebody’s baby was laid out to rest, <br /> White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold, <br />And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast, <br />And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed <br /> With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold. <br /> <br />Somebody saw it go out of her sight, <br /> Under the coffin lid – out through the door; <br />Somebody finds only darkness and blight <br />All through the glory of summer-sun light; <br /> Somebody’s baby will waken no more. <br /> <br />Somebody’s sorrow is making me weep: <br /> I know not her name, but I echo her cry, <br />For the dearly bought baby she longed so to keep, <br />The baby that rode to its long-lasting sleep <br /> In the little white hearse that went rumbling by. <br /> <br />I know not her name, but her sorrow I know; <br /> While I paused on the crossing I lived it once more, <br />And back to my heart surged that river of woe <br />That but in the breast of a mother can flow; <br /> For the little white hearse has been, too, at my door.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-little-white-hearse/
