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| threshershark (profile) wrote, on 9-26-2003 at 9:56pm | |
| I'm kindof in a bad mood right now, for many reasons. But this cheered me up. It's a poem by Julia A. Moore, an author who grew up in Rockford (in the Plainfeild area), and later moved to Algoma. She wrote poetry for funerals, like this one, and some other poems and eventually published a book. Everyone critized her work because, well, it's awfully written. But she kept pressing on, and insisted that poetry comes from the heart, not the head. Mark Twain himself said she was his favorite poet, and he modeled the characture Emmiline Grangerford in Huck Finn, if you ever read it. Little Henry by Julia A. Moore Oh! come listen to my story Of a little infant child -- His spirit is in glory -- It has left us for a while. Death has robbed us of our Henry, He is with our Savior now, Where there is no pain or sorrow Comes to cloud his little brow. God has took their little treasure, And his name I'll tell you now, He has gone from earth forever, Their little Charles Henry House. His cheeks were red as roses, And his eyes were black as coals, His little lips were red as rubies, And his little hair it curled. Oh, they called him little Charley, He was full of joyful mirth -- Now his little form is lying 'Neath the cold and silent earth. It was the eleventh of December, On a cold and windy day, Just at the close of evening, When the sunlight fades away; Little Henry he was dying, In his little crib he lay, With soft winds round him sighing From the morn till close of day. Parents, brothers, sisters weeping, For their cup of sorrow's full, And his little playthings keeping, That he thought so beautiful -- Tears from parents' eyes were starting For their little loving one. Oh! how painful was the parting From their little infant son. Oh! how often have they kissed him, And caressed his little brow -- To his little voice have listened, But his place is vacant now. They called him little Charley, And his loving name they called, But they could not keep their darling From the loving Savior's call. But they must now cease their mourning, His little soul is at rest, Where there can no storms of trouble Roll across his peaceful breast. Now his little form is sleeping In the cold and silent tomb, And his friends are left a weeping, In his dear and loving home. It was the eleventh of December, Eighteen seventy was the year, Kind friends will all remember -- Silently let fall a tear. But we must not trouble borrow, For the God of heaven is just; No one knows a parent's sorrow, Till a child some friend have lost. |
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Angel_Bob | 09-26-03 10:12pm I think it's pretty good. Not the best, but I could write something worse ;p
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| threshershark | Re:, 09-26-03 10:14pm Yeah, it is pretty aweful. It's kindof amazing, though, considering she only had a third grade education. |