 | Poems (1895) |  |
77
VII. THE FEAR.
The way this Child doth creep into my heartEven fills my inmost being with alarm;
For fears, which from my soul I cannot charm
By any aidance of hope's rainbow-art,
Oppress me yet, that we are doom'd to part,
And all his pretty looks and breath of balm
Hear requiem'd by the grave-wind's winter-psalm,
And childless to the home of love depart!
But God is with him in his little ways,
His smiles and murmurs, cries and sufferings;
And if he be retaken to the springs
From whence all being flows, we yet will praise
The All-Disposer with a grief serene,
And o'er our dead bud fold its memory's fadeless green!
27th March 1839.
| Poems (1895) | |