As t sit with my silent sorrow,

I sing the sad song of my soul ;
Oh ! will she not come back to-morrow,

The love of my secret soul?

My Lulu, the white-armed, the bright-eyed !

My Lulu, the yearned for and young,
Who sings with the angels for early

She learned of the angels their tongue.

For one of them stole her and brought her

Up to the star-kissed skies,
And there, mid the maidens, he taught her

The songs that heavenward rise.

She needed no harp in her white hands,
For her voice was a gift from her God ;

And they gave her no crown but the daisies,
That sprang from the sacred sod.

And they taught her no songs but the sweet ones

They sing when our Savior is sad,
As He turns His dear eyes on our people ;

When none in His glory are glad.

All sandalless, bright-eyed and beaming,
And pure-bosomed, sacred, and sweet,

She comes with her crown of fresh daisies,
And lays it with smiles at His feet.

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Then she clasps her white fingers and sings Him

A thrilling of sweetness and love ;
While on her bright shoulder comes perching,

A gift from great Gabriel a dove !

Her voice goes stealing and pealing

All over the city of God,
Stilling His sorrow as when He

The waves of old Galilee trod.

And I that am listening cannot

Hear that that 's she 's singing ; but I
As her voice from planet to planet,

Drops limpid adown through the sky-
Am laden with love, and crushed down

By weight of that echo of song
How long will my Lulu be coming,

How long? Oh! my Lulu ! how long?