Ah me, as happy mothers call
Through the tender twilights to the gay,
Glad truant making holiday
Too long before the evenfall.
The garden odors drifted through,
The scent of earth and box and rose,
And then, as silently as those,
A little wistful child I knew.
So small, so frightened and so cold,
Ah, close, so close I gathered her
Within my arms, she might not stir,
And crooned and kissed her in their hold.
As might a happy mother, when,
Aghast for some quaint, trifling thing,
One runs to her for comforting,
And smiles within her arms again.
All night upon my heart she lay,
All night I held her warm and close,
Until the morning wind arose
And called across the world for day.
The garden odors drifted through
The open door; as still as they
She passed into the awful day,
A little, wistful child I knew.
Think you for this God's smile may dim
(His are so many, many dead)
Seeing that I but comforted
A child—and sent her back to Him!
SUCH ARE THE SOULS IN PURGATORY: ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH
Three days she wandered forth from me,
Then sought me as of old.
"I did not know how dark 'twould be,"
She sobbed, "nor yet how cold."
And it is chill for me to fare
Who have not long been dead.
If thou wouldst give away thy cloak
I might go comforted."