I remembered the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar that renewed our woe. And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!" Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; James Russell Lowell [1819-1891] "WE ARE SEVEN " A SIMPLE Child, That lightly draws its breath, I met a little cottage Girl: She was eight years old, she said: She had a rustic, woodland air, "Sisters and brothers, little Maid, "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And where are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell, And two are gone to sea; "We Are Seven" "Two of us in the church-yard lie, Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell, Yet ye are seven!-I pray you tell, "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little Maid replied: "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchief there I hem; "And often after sunset, Sir, I take my little porringer, "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay, Till God released her of her pain; And then she went away. 303 "So in the church-yard she was laid; "And when the ground was white with snow, And he lies by her side." "How many are you, then," said I, "If they two are in heaven?" Quick was the little Maid's reply, "O Master! we are seven." "But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!" 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little Maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!" William Wordsworth [1770-1850] MY CHILD I CANNOT make him dead! His fair sunshiny head Is ever bounding round my study chair; The vision vanishes,—he is not there! I walk my parlor floor, To give my boy a call; And then bethink me that-he is not there! I thread the crowded street; A satchelled lad I meet, My Child With the same beaming eyes and colored hair; And, as he's running by, Follow him with my eye, I know his face is hid Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair; O'er it in prayer I knelt; Yet my heart whispers that he is not there! I cannot make him dead! When passing by the bed, So long watched over with parental care, My spirit and my eye, Seek him inquiringly, Before the thought comes that--he is not there! When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake, With my first breathing of the morning air My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that he is not there! When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer; I am, in spirit, praying For our boy's spirit, though-he is not there! Not there! Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear. Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked;—he is not there! 305 He lives! In all the past Of seeing him again will I despair; And on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!" Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear, That, in the spirit-land, Meeting at thy right hand, "Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there! John Pierpont [1785-1866] THE CHILD'S WISH GRANTED Do you remember, my sweet, absent son, You loved the heavens so warm and clear and high; I laughed and said I could not;—set you down, CHALLENGE THIS little child, so white, so calm, Decked for her grave, Encountered death without a qualm. Are you as brave? So small, and armed with naught beside Her mother's kiss, Alone she stepped, unterrified, Into the abyss. |