Poems | ||
SONNET XX.
We stood beside the sick, and, as we thought,The dying pillow of our youngest child,
Whose spirit, yet by this world undefiled,
Seem'd ready to take wing; when there was brought
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Strange feelings; for it spake with kindness mild
Of one to like bereavement reconciled
By a brief lesson which my pen had taught.
And therewith came a little simple book,
Telling a gentle tale of children twain,
Whom God of late to rest eternal took
From this world's sin and sorrow, care and pain;
Thankfully on those pages did we look,
And trust they spake not to our hearts in vain.
Poems | ||