 | The verse-book of a homely woman |  |
To a Little White Bird
INTO the world you came, and I was
dumb,
Because "God did it," so the wise ones
said;
I wonder sometimes "Did you really
come?"
And "Are you truly . . . dead?"
Thus you went out — alone and uncaressed;
O sweet, soft thing, in all your infant
grace,
I never held you in my arms, nor pressed
Warm kisses on your face!
But, in the Garden of the Undefiled,
My soul will claim you . . . you, and
not another;
I shall hold out my arms, and say "My
child!"
And you will call me "Mother!"
dumb,
Because "God did it," so the wise ones
said;
I wonder sometimes "Did you really
come?"
And "Are you truly . . . dead?"
Thus you went out — alone and uncaressed;
O sweet, soft thing, in all your infant
grace,
I never held you in my arms, nor pressed
Warm kisses on your face!
But, in the Garden of the Undefiled,
My soul will claim you . . . you, and
not another;
I shall hold out my arms, and say "My
child!"
And you will call me "Mother!"
| The verse-book of a homely woman | |