Gone

A poem by Nora Pembroke

Mournfully, mournfully
All around me are crying,
For my dark-eyed baby boy
Is dying, dying

Tenderly, tenderly
To him I am clinging,
But he slips from my fond arms,
Death bells are ringing

Joyfully, joyfully
Angels are receiving
My babe--by the empty cot
I must sit grieving.