If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped, <br />And ne'er would nestle in your palm again; <br />If the white feet into the grave had tripped--' <br /> <br />When Bessie died-- <br />We braided the brown hair, and tied <br />It just as her own little hands <br />Had fastened back the silken strands <br />A thousand times-- the crimson bit <br />Of ribbon woven into it <br />That she had worn with childish pride-- <br />Smoothed down the dainty bow-- and cried <br />When Bessie died. <br /> <br />When Bessie died-- <br />We drew the nursery blinds aside, <br />And as the morning in the room <br />Burst like a primrose into bloom, <br />Her pet canary's cage we hung <br />Where she might hear him when he sung-- <br />And yet not any note he tried, <br />Though she lay listening folded-eyed. <br /> <br />When Bessie died-- <br />We writhed in prayer unsatisfied: <br />We begged of God, and He did smile <br />In silence on us all the while; <br />And we did see Him, through our tears, <br />Enfolding that fair form of hers, <br />She laughing back against His love <br />The kisses had nothing of-- <br />And death to us He still denied, <br />When Bessie died-- <br />When Bessie died.<br /><br />James Whitcomb Riley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-bessie-died/
