 | Little Charlie |  |
LITTLE CHARLIE.
A LAMENT.
BY T. B. ALDRICH.
O sunshine, making golden spots
Upon the carpet at my feet—
The shadows of the coming flowers!
The phantoms of forget-me-nots
And roses red and sweet!—
How can you seem so full of joy,
And we so sad at heart and sore?—
Angel of death! again thy wings
Are folded at our door!
Upon the carpet at my feet—
The shadows of the coming flowers!
The phantoms of forget-me-nots
And roses red and sweet!—
How can you seem so full of joy,
And we so sad at heart and sore?—
Angel of death! again thy wings
Are folded at our door!
We can but yearn through length of days
For something lost, we fancied ours:
We'll miss thee, darling, when the Spring
Has touched the world to flowers!
For thou wast like that dainty month
Which strews the violets at its feet:
Thy life was slips of golden sun
And silver tear-drops braided sweet!
For thou wast light and thou wast shade,
And thine were sweet capricious ways!—
Now lost in purple languors, now
No bird in ripe red summer days
Was half as wild as thou!
O little presence! everywhere
We find some touching trace of thee—
A pencil-mark upon the wall
That “naughty hands” made thoughtlessly:
And broken toys around the house—
Where he has left them they have lain
Waiting for little busy hands
That will not come again,—
Will never come again!
For something lost, we fancied ours:
We'll miss thee, darling, when the Spring
Has touched the world to flowers!
For thou wast like that dainty month
Which strews the violets at its feet:
Thy life was slips of golden sun
And silver tear-drops braided sweet!
For thou wast light and thou wast shade,
And thine were sweet capricious ways!—
Now lost in purple languors, now
No bird in ripe red summer days
Was half as wild as thou!
O little presence! everywhere
We find some touching trace of thee—
A pencil-mark upon the wall
That “naughty hands” made thoughtlessly:
And broken toys around the house—
Where he has left them they have lain
Waiting for little busy hands
That will not come again,—
Will never come again!
Within the shrouded room below
He lies a-cold—and yet we know
It is not Charlie there!
It is not Charlie cold and white,
It is the robe, that, in his flight
He gently cast aside!
Our darling hath not died!
O rare pale lips! O clouded eyes!
O violet eyes grown dim!
Ah, well! this little lock of hair
Is all of him!
Is all of him that we can keep
For loving kisses, and the thought
Of him and death may teach us more
Than all our life hath taught!
He lies a-cold—and yet we know
It is not Charlie there!
It is not Charlie cold and white,
It is the robe, that, in his flight
He gently cast aside!
Our darling hath not died!
O rare pale lips! O clouded eyes!
O violet eyes grown dim!
Ah, well! this little lock of hair
Is all of him!
Is all of him that we can keep
For loving kisses, and the thought
Of him and death may teach us more
Than all our life hath taught!
God, walking over starry spheres,
Did clasp his tiny hand,
And led him, through a fall of tears,
Into the Mystic Land!
Angel of death! we question not:
Who asks of heaven, “Why does it rain?”
Angel! we bless thee, for thy kiss
Hath hushed the lips of Pain!
No “Wherefore?” or “To what good end?”
Shall out of doubt and anguish creep
Into our thought. We bow our heads:
He giveth His beloved sleep!
Did clasp his tiny hand,
And led him, through a fall of tears,
Into the Mystic Land!
Angel of death! we question not:
Who asks of heaven, “Why does it rain?”
Angel! we bless thee, for thy kiss
Hath hushed the lips of Pain!
No “Wherefore?” or “To what good end?”
Shall out of doubt and anguish creep
Into our thought. We bow our heads:
He giveth His beloved sleep!
| Little Charlie | |