A tiny hand falls on my cheek—
Lightly and so fragrantly
As if a snow-flake could a rose-leaf be—
And in the dark touches a tear
Which has sprung clear,
From eyes unconscious of their own distress,
At the deep pathos of such tender helplessness.
And then she claims her sleep,
As if she knows my love and trusts it deep.
Dear God! to whom the bravest of us is a child,