Explore "The Little White Hearse" by Ella Wheeler Wilcox on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
Somebody's baby was buried to-day- / The empty white hearse from the grave rumbled back, / And the morning somehow seemed less smiling and gay / As I paused on the walk while it crossed on its way, / And a shadow seemed drawn o'er the sun's golden tract.
Somebody's baby was laid out to rest, / White as a snowdrop, and fair to behold, / And the soft little hands were crossed over the breast, / And those hands and the lips and the eyelids were pressed / With kisses as hot as the eyelids were cold.