Poetry Archives

A hearse all draped in mourning,
  With white plumes overhead,
Bearing a little coffin—
  Somebody’s baby’s dead.

Upon the velvet cover
  Some hand has placed a wreath,
White as the waxen features
  Of the baby that lies beneath.

Out in the graveyard making
  A rest for a shining head,
Somebody’s heart is breaking,
  Somebody’s baby’s dead.

Over a baby’s coffin,
  Heaping a mound of clay,
Somebody’s hopes are buried
  In that little grave to-day.

Somebody’s home is dreary,
  Somebody’s sunshine fled,
Somebody’s sad and weary,
  Somebody’s baby’s dead.