LAST night I dreamed
No dream of joy or sorrow,
Yet, when I woke, I wept,
Knowing the brightness of some far to-morrow
Had darkened while I slept!
The Child
I MAY not lift him in my arms. His face I may not see—
Are angel hands more tender than a mother’s hands may be?
And does he smile to hear the song an angel stole from me?
The wise King said, “He cannot come but I will go to him!”
O David! did you seek with words to make the grave less grim?
And did you think to cheat, with words, the jealous seraphim?
So! he will learn of heaven—he, who scarcely knew the earth.
All fullness waits the baby eyes that never looked on dearth—
The mystery of death usurps the mystery of birth!
What light has earth to give me for the light that heaven beguiled?
What is the calm of heaven to him who has not known the wild?—
O, we are both bereft, bereft—the mother and the child!
Intrusion
I BUILT myself a pleasant house.
Content was I to dwell in it—
Its door was fast against the wind
With all the gusty swell of it.
It had two windows, high and clear,
With trees and skies to shine through them,
They were acquainted with the moon,
And every star was mine through them.
Its walls were silent walls; its hearth
Held little fires to gladden me—
And though the nights might weep outside
No sob crept through to sadden me.