 | Fugitive poetry |  |
70
TO A SLEEPING BOY.
Sleep on! Sleep on! beguiling
The hours with happy rest.
Sleep!—by that dreamy smiling,
I know that thou art blest.
Thy mother over thee hath leant
To guard thee from annoy,
And the angel of the innocent
Was in that dream, my boy!
The hours with happy rest.
Sleep!—by that dreamy smiling,
I know that thou art blest.
Thy mother over thee hath leant
To guard thee from annoy,
And the angel of the innocent
Was in that dream, my boy!
The tinting of the summer rose
Is on that pillowed cheek,
And the quietness of summer thought
Has made thy forehead meek.
And yet that little ample brow,
And arching lip, are fraught
With pledges of high manliness,
And promises of thought.
Is on that pillowed cheek,
And the quietness of summer thought
Has made thy forehead meek.
And yet that little ample brow,
And arching lip, are fraught
With pledges of high manliness,
And promises of thought.
Thy polished limbs are rounded out
As is the Autumn fruit,
And full and reedy is the voice
That slumber hath made mute.
And, looking on thy perfect form—
Hearing thy pleasant tone—
I almost weep for joy, my son,
To know thee for my own.
As is the Autumn fruit,
And full and reedy is the voice
That slumber hath made mute.
And, looking on thy perfect form—
Hearing thy pleasant tone—
I almost weep for joy, my son,
To know thee for my own.
71
Sleep on! thine eye seems looking thro'
The half transparent lid,
As if its free and radiant glance
Impatiently were hid;
But ever as I kneel to pray,
And in my fulness weep,
I thank the Giver of my child
For that pure gift of sleep—
I half believe they take thee, then,
Back to a better world again.
The half transparent lid,
As if its free and radiant glance
Impatiently were hid;
But ever as I kneel to pray,
And in my fulness weep,
I thank the Giver of my child
For that pure gift of sleep—
I half believe they take thee, then,
Back to a better world again.
And so, sleep on! If thou hast worn
An angel's shining wing,
The watch that I have loved to keep
Hath been a blessed thing.
And if thy spirit hath been here,
With spotless thoughts alone—
A mother's silent ministry
Is still a holy one;
And I will pray that there may be
A shining wing in wait for thee.
An angel's shining wing,
The watch that I have loved to keep
Hath been a blessed thing.
And if thy spirit hath been here,
With spotless thoughts alone—
A mother's silent ministry
Is still a holy one;
And I will pray that there may be
A shining wing in wait for thee.
| Fugitive poetry | |