Sad Trinkets Of My Little Daughter, Dresses That Touched Her Like Caresses, Why Do You Draw My Mournful Eyes? To Borrow A Newer Weight Of Sorrow? No Longer Will You Clothe Her Form, To Fold Her Around, And Wrap Her, Hold Her. A Hard, Unwaking Sleep Has Overpowered Her Limbs, And Now The Flowered Cool Muslin And The Ribbon Snoods Are Bootless, The Gilded Girdles Fruitless. My Little Girl, 'Twas To A Bed Far Other That One Day Thy Poor Mother Had Thought To Lead Thee, And This Simple Dower Suits Not The Bridal Hour; A Tiny Shroud And Gown Of Her Own Sewing She Gives Thee At Thy Going. Thy Rather Brings A Clod Of Earth, A Somber Pillow For Thy Last Slumber. And So A Single Casket, Scant Of Measure, Locks Thee And All Thy Treasure.