The Old Sexton

BENT and white was the sexton,
With the snows of many a year;
And I thought in my early childhood,
That he could not long be here.
Ah, little I knew of the future!
Oh, not for the aged dead,
At rest from his weary labor,
Are the silent tears I shed!
The sexton old grows older; And to-day in the autumn mild, Wrinkled, and white as the winter, He buried my beautiful child.
A. L. Carlton