And yet—I fancy it often—
I should stir in my shrouded sleep,
And struggle to rise in my coffin,
If he came there to weep.
Among the dead—or the angels—
Though ever so faint and dim,
I should know that voice in a thousand,
And stretch my hands to him.
But the trouble of life and living,
And the burden of daily care,
And the endless sin, and forgiving,
Are greater than I can bear.
So rain, Summer Rain, and cover
The meadows dewy and deep,
And freshen the blossoming clover,
And sing me to dreamless sleep.
A BABY'S DEATH
A little white soul went up to God,
Out of the mire of the city street;
It grew like a flower in the highway broad,
Close to the trample of heedless feet.
It fell like a snow-flake over night,
Into the ways by vile ones trod;
It sparkled—dissolved in the morning light,
And the little white soul went up to God.
Dainty, flower-soft, waxen thing,
Its clear eyes opened on this bad earth,
And the little shuddering soul took wing,
By the gate of death, from the gate of birth.
Not for those innocent lips and eyes,
The words and the ways of sin and strife;
The pure flower opened in paradise,
Fast by the banks of the river of life.
Yea, little victors, who never fought;
And crowned, though ye never ran the race,
His blood your innocent lives hath bought,
And ye stand before Him and see His face!