obsessive journey

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Found this poem while researching through newspapers; it was published in the Rockford Journal; Rockford, Illinois; Saturday, March 2, 1872; p. 2.

LITTLE BELL
Closed are the laughing eyes,
   Beneath their curtains fair,
And round a marble brow,
   Soft lies the silken hair.

Stilled are the little hands,
   That clasp our own no more,
And still two little feet,
   That played around our door.

A little voice is hushed,
   That we had learned to love,
And now its music sweet,
   The angels hear above.

When first the baby come,
   We asked for her God's care,
And He hath sent His love,
   An answer to our prayer.

Our Father took her home,
   Up to His mansion fair;
We surely could not ask,
   More tender, loving care.

And yet we loved her so,
   'Twas hard to have her go
To seek a fairer land,
   And leave us still below.

We know she'll not return,
   But in that fairer home,
The little girl we love,
   Will wait for us to come.


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