And, now with his pale sister in the grave, all that love has come away from the mound, where worms feast, and centers on the boy.
How you watch the storms lest they harm him! How often you steal to his bed late at night and lay your hand lightly upon the brow, where the curls cluster thick, rising and falling with the throbbing temples, and watch, for minutes together, the little lips half-parted, and listen—your ear close to them—if the breathing be regular and sweet!
But the day comes—the night rather—when you can catch no breathing.
Aye, put your hair away—compose yourself—listen again.
No, there is nothing!
Put your hand now to his brow—damp indeed—but not with healthful night sleep: it is not your hand, no, do not deceive yourself—it is your loved boy’s forehead that is so cold; and your loved boy will never speak to you again—never play again—he is dead!
Oh, the tears—the tears: what blessed things are tears! Never fear now to let them fall on his forehead, or his lip, lest you waken him! Clasp him—clasp him harder—you can not hurt, you can not waken him! Lay him down, gently or not, it is the same; he is stiff; he is stark and cold.
But courage and patience, faith and hope recovers itself easier, thought I, than these embers will get into blaze again.
But courage, and patience, faith, and hope have their limit. Blessed be the man who escapes such trial as will determine limit!