That which I saved I lost
And that I lost I found,
And you are mine, oh tender little ghost,
Whose grave is holy ground.

That which I kept is flown,
So fast the children grow,
The only child I keep to be my own
I lost long years ago.

The little ones that stayed
Slip from me while I cry:
Oh, not so fast, so fast, you golden-head.
Swift as the wind they fly.

Not two days are the same.
To-morrow will not see
To-day's young children, crested like a flame,
Gathered about my knee.

One day a day will dawn
Will see me dispossessed --
An empty nest whence singing-birds have flown.
Who shall refill the nest?

The years run out like sand
To strip me of my pride;
Then in my hand will steal a clinging hand.
I keep the child who died.

God gives and does not lend
This one lamb of the fold;
And he will need his mother to the end
And never will grow old.