 | English Roses |  |
SACRED SEVEN.
“I have four children”—thus I spoke,Heedless of jealousy it woke
In one warm bosom—“Nay,” said Maud,
The niece that had no little part
Of love and housing in my heart,
With eyes effulgent from the laud
Just laid upon her—“We are five,
All bees in one dear honey hive.”
I laughed, and with convenient kiss
Hushed lips that had not urged amiss;
And then continued, “Five we are!”
When of a sudden from afar
The baby voice of him that died,
In music soft as tears replied—
“Not so,” dear father, we are six,
And I unheard do ever mix
With all your joys, though none may see.”
So answered I, “Six let it be!”
But then the street door opened wide,
And stepped a beggar boy inside
With rags and hunger and distress
Clad in his lonely helplessness;
Who, as I gave the broken bread
And warming him embraced that head
Of suffering, said, “We are seven!”
For it was Christ, and Christ was Heaven.
| English Roses | |