Wings.
Dinah Mulock Craik.
“Mother, oh, make me a pair of wings,
Like the Christ-child’s adorning;
Blue as the sky, with a gold star-eye—
I’ll wear them on Christmas morning.”
The mother worked with a careless heart
All through that merry morning;
Happy and blind, nor saw behind
The shadow that gives no warning.
He struck—and over the little face
A sudden change came creeping;
Twelve struggling hours against Death’s fierce powers,
And then—he has left her sleeping.
Strange sleep that no mother’s kiss can wake!
Lay her pretty wings beside her;
Strew white flowers sweet on her hands and feet,
And under the white snow hide her.
For the Christ-child called her out of her play,
And, thus our earth-life scorning,
She went away. What, dead, we say?
She was born that Christmas morning.
Wide Awake.