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A single tress of golden hair;
A sacred relic kept with care;
A memory of one so fair,


That angels left their hymning band,
And came to earth, to take his hand
And lead him to the Unseen Land.


But ere he trod the starry way
That leadeth to eternal day,
As calm and beautiful he lay,


This curling tress of golden hair,
This sacred relic kept with care,
She gathered from his forehead fair.


O, lingering o'er the treasure long,
A thousand tender moments throng;
She hears again his cradle song!


And yesternight before she slept,
She pressed it to her lips and wept;
Warm tear-drops down her pale face crept;


While to her aching heart she said,
"Why mournest thou that he is dead?
He sleepeth in a peaceful bed.


God called him to a sweet repose,
And he hath slept through winter snows,
Till now the dewy violet blows


Above his grave--soft mosses spring,
And birds on free and happy wing,
All day their heaven-tuned praises sing."


Ah, yes, with joy the April rain
Thrills Nature's breast, but mine with pain
Sigheth--he will not come again.