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ore soft, less solemn imagesDrifted o'er the lady's heartSilently as snow.She had seen eight days departHour by hour, on bended knees,With pale-wrung hands and prayings lowAnd broken, through which came the soundOf tears that fell against the ground,Making sad stops.--"Dear Lord, dear Lord!"She still had prayed, (the heavenly wordBroken by an earthly sigh)--"Thou who didst not erst denyThe mother-joy to Mary mild,Blessed in the blessed childWhich hearkened in meek babyhoodHer cradle-hymn, albeit usedTo all that music interfusedIn breasts of angels high and good!Oh, take not, Lord, my babe away--Oh, take not to thy songful heavenThe pretty baby thou hast given,Or ere that I have seen him playAround his father's knees and knownThat _he_ knew how my love has goneFrom all the world to him.Think, God among the cherubim,How I shall shiver every dayIn thy June sunshine, knowing whereThe grave-grass keeps it from his fairStill cheeks: and feel, at every tread,His little body, which is deadAnd hidden in thy turfy fold,Doth make thy whole warm earth a-cold!O God, I am so young, so young--I am not used to tears at nightsInstead of slumber--not to prayerWith sobbing lips and hands out-wrung!Thou knowest all my prayings were'I bless thee, God, for past delights--Thank God!' I am not used to bearHard thoughts of death; the earth doth coverNo face from me of friend or lover:And must the first who teaches meThe form of shrouds and funerals, beMine own first-born beloved? heWho taught me first this mother-love?Dear Lord who spreadest out aboveThy loving, transpierced hands to meetAll lifted hearts with blessing sweet,--Pierce not my heart, my tender heartThou madest tender! Thou who artSo happy in thy heaven alway,Take not mine only bliss away!"
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