 | Shifting Scenes and Other Poems |  |
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O LITTLE CHILD:
In Memoriam.
O little child! that camest, and art gone,
Whose tiny footprints are upon our hearts;
O little wonder of the dreaming eyes,
Whose dreams we saw not, and could never see;
Who wert with us, and yet we knew thee not,
Nor thought that, underneath our quiet roof,
An angel harboured with us for a time,
And was our child, and is our child no more,
Being familiar with the floor of heaven,
And dwelling nigh unto the throne of God!
Dost ever think of us, as we of thee?
Dost ever bend thy beaming brow, O child!
Only a little space—a little space—
And turn from all the glories of thy home
To look into the lorn hearts thou hast left?
Whose tiny footprints are upon our hearts;
O little wonder of the dreaming eyes,
Whose dreams we saw not, and could never see;
Who wert with us, and yet we knew thee not,
Nor thought that, underneath our quiet roof,
An angel harboured with us for a time,
And was our child, and is our child no more,
Being familiar with the floor of heaven,
And dwelling nigh unto the throne of God!
Dost ever think of us, as we of thee?
Dost ever bend thy beaming brow, O child!
Only a little space—a little space—
And turn from all the glories of thy home
To look into the lorn hearts thou hast left?
And we, O child! who tend our daily tasks,
Go in and out, and weep with those who weep,
And laugh with those who laugh, and buy and sell,
And travel o'er the dusty highways still
As though thou wert not, and hadst never been,
As when we knew thy little sunny face
Would surely greet us at the garden-gate;—
Dost think that we forget thee, O our child?
Go in and out, and weep with those who weep,
And laugh with those who laugh, and buy and sell,
And travel o'er the dusty highways still
As though thou wert not, and hadst never been,
As when we knew thy little sunny face
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Dost think that we forget thee, O our child?
Not always are we in the weary mart;
Not always are we plodding in the streets.
We, in our rural home, when the grey dusk
Falls upon copse and meadow, saunter out,
And do not talk, but think of thee, O child!
And, in the night, when heavy hearts are hushed,
In the deep night we hear the beating rain,
And in the beating rain the wailing wind,
And in the wailing wind a cry, a low,
Soft cry, not as of agony, but bliss—
A silvery cry, as though we heard a thrill
Of spirit-music, far beyond the rain,
Beyond the wailings of the wind, beyond
The storms and gloomy reaches of the night,—
Out of the golden spaces far beyond.
And then we dream. We do but dream, O child!
O little child! that camest, and art gone,
That wert our child, and art our child no more,
We dream thou hast not yet forgotten us,
But yearnest from thy starry home, as we
Yearn towards the heavens for thee. We do but dream,
And in our dreamings are not quite forlorn.
Not always are we plodding in the streets.
We, in our rural home, when the grey dusk
Falls upon copse and meadow, saunter out,
And do not talk, but think of thee, O child!
And, in the night, when heavy hearts are hushed,
In the deep night we hear the beating rain,
And in the beating rain the wailing wind,
And in the wailing wind a cry, a low,
Soft cry, not as of agony, but bliss—
A silvery cry, as though we heard a thrill
Of spirit-music, far beyond the rain,
Beyond the wailings of the wind, beyond
The storms and gloomy reaches of the night,—
Out of the golden spaces far beyond.
And then we dream. We do but dream, O child!
O little child! that camest, and art gone,
That wert our child, and art our child no more,
We dream thou hast not yet forgotten us,
But yearnest from thy starry home, as we
Yearn towards the heavens for thee. We do but dream,
And in our dreamings are not quite forlorn.
Thy room is here, sweet babe! We enter it—
The room, but oh! the child. Thy little bed
Is white in moonlight;—Oh! for the beauteous form.
Thy toys are trembling in our palms—but oh!
The tiny, dimpled hands that fingered them.
The stairs are here;—but oh! the little feet.
Gone! Gone for ever! Yet we hope to reach
The heaven that holds thee; and, with humble hearts,
Thank God for thee, O child! We know that thou
Art seeing now, and not as in a dream,
The things we long for, and shall never see
Until we join thee in the after-world;—
Thee, little child! who camest, and art gone,
Who wert our child, and art our child no more,
Being familiar with the floor of heaven,
And dwelling nigh unto the throne of God!
The room, but oh! the child. Thy little bed
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Thy toys are trembling in our palms—but oh!
The tiny, dimpled hands that fingered them.
The stairs are here;—but oh! the little feet.
Gone! Gone for ever! Yet we hope to reach
The heaven that holds thee; and, with humble hearts,
Thank God for thee, O child! We know that thou
Art seeing now, and not as in a dream,
The things we long for, and shall never see
Until we join thee in the after-world;—
Thee, little child! who camest, and art gone,
Who wert our child, and art our child no more,
Being familiar with the floor of heaven,
And dwelling nigh unto the throne of God!
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