 | Poetry for children |  |
A little Girl to her friend, with a present of the Rev. Mr. Gallaudet's “Book of the Soul.”
Unless my mother guides my hand,
I cannot write, you know,
But such a tide of tender thought
Does round your image flow,
I fain must send one simple scroll
With this sweet book about the Soul.
I cannot write, you know,
But such a tide of tender thought
Does round your image flow,
I fain must send one simple scroll
With this sweet book about the Soul.
'Tis written by a learned man,
And though the size is small,
Its subject is a boundless one,
And much concerns us all,
Because the soul can ne'er decay,
When this frail body fades away.
And though the size is small,
Its subject is a boundless one,
And much concerns us all,
Because the soul can ne'er decay,
When this frail body fades away.
I've never seen this volume's power
At all surpast, my dear,
For making hidden mysteries plain,
And abstract matters clear,
Pray, let it have the highest place,
Your chosen library to grace.
At all surpast, my dear,
38
And abstract matters clear,
Pray, let it have the highest place,
Your chosen library to grace.
I often of your sister, think,
That early smitten flower,
Who gave her soul so cheerfully
To God, in life's last hour:
Oh, may we meet her when we die,
In yonder, bright, unclouded sky.
That early smitten flower,
Who gave her soul so cheerfully
To God, in life's last hour:
Oh, may we meet her when we die,
In yonder, bright, unclouded sky.
| Poetry for children | |