One more form has drooped and faded;
One more casket holds a prize;
Once more home has lost a treasure,
Since our little Blanchie died.
All night long we watched beside her
With most tender anxious care;
Till the early dawn of morning,
When angels bore our gem away.
Fold your empty arms sad parent,
Blanchie needs not their embrace;
Jesus claimed the life you nourished
For a fairer dwelling place.
Whilst her gentle form grew fairer,
Neath your tender, loving care,
Angles were weaving crowns of glory
For you darling's brow and hair.
Put away each love wrought garment,
fold her sleeping robe from sight;
Let not your lips refuse to utter
Fervently, "Thy will to-night."
--by Netta JONES--