A Baby's Death
A little soul scarce fledged for earthTakes wing with heaven again for goalEven while we hailed as fresh from birthA little soul.
Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,Not knowing beyond this blind world's girthWhat things are writ in heaven's full scroll.
Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,And all things held in time's controlSeem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worthA little soul.
The little feet that never trodEarth, never strayed in field or street,What hand leads upward back to GodThe little feet?
A rose in June's most honied heat,When life makes keen the kindling sod,Was not so soft and warm and sweet.
Their pilgrimage's periodA few swift moons have seen completeSince mother's hands first clasped and shodThe little feet.
The little hands that never soughtEarth's prizes, worthless all as sands,What gift has death, God's servant, broughtThe little hands?
We ask: but love's self silent stands,Love, that lends eyes and wings to thoughtTo search where death's dim heaven expands.
Ere this, perchance, though love know nought,Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands,Where hands of guiding angels caughtThe little hands.
The little eyes that never knewLight other than of dawning skies,What new life now lights up anewThe little eyes?
Who knows but on their sleep may riseSuch light as never heaven let throughTo lighten earth from Paradise?
No storm, we know, may change the blueSoft heaven that haply death descriesNo tears, like these in ours, bedewThe little eyes.
Was life so strange, so sad the sky,So strait the wide world's range,He would not stay to wonder whyWas life so strange?
Was earth's fair house a joyless grangeBeside that house on highWhence Time that bore him failed to estrange?
That here at once his soul put byAll gifts of time and change,And left us heavier hearts to sigh'Was life so strange?'
Angel by name love called him, seeing so fairThe sweet small frame;Meet to be called, if ever man's child were,Angel by name.
Rose-bright and warm from heaven's own heart he came,And might not bearThe cloud that covers earth's wan face with shame.
His little light of life was all too rareAnd soft a flame:Heaven yearned for him till angels hailed him thereAngel by name.
The song that smiled upon his birthday hereWeeps on the grave that holds him undefiledWhose loss makes bitterer than a soundless tearThe song that smiled.
His name crowned once the mightiest ever styledSovereign of arts, and angel: fate and fearKnew then their master, and were reconciled.
But we saw born beneath some tenderer sphereMichael, an angel and a little child,Whose loss bows down to weep upon his bierThe song that smiled.
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