A wind! or was't a cry? The infant gasped for breath.
Belike soft bleating lambs had wakened her,
Belike the new-born soul was lured toward lanes of death,
The rosy flush had held a messenger.
Ah woe that Mother's heart as close she pressed her child;
Poor quivering nameless thing and O so frail
To penetrate that void—her thoughts grew fierce and wild.
An infant unbaptised, what fears assail?
An erie wind had risen; hark its shrilling cry I
A flickering candle loosed deep shadows round