When, at the cool gray break Of day, from sleep I wake. With my first breathing of the morning air
My soul goes up, with joy, To Him who gave my boy; Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!
When at the day's calm close, Before we seek repose, I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;
Whate'er I may be saying, I am in spirit praying For our boy's spirit, though—he is not there!
Not there!—Where, then, is he? The form I used to see Was but the raiment that he used to wear.
The grave, that now doth press Upon that cast-off dress, Is but his wardrobe locked—he is not there!
He lives!—In all the past He lives; nor, to the last, Of seeing him again will I despair;
In dreams I see him now; And, on his angel brow, I see it written, "Thou shalt see me there!"
Yes, we all live to God! Father, thy chastening rod So help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,
That, in the spirit land, Meeting at thy right hand, 'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there!
JOHN PIERPONT.
She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,
Her tears are in the falling rain, She calls me in the wind's soft song,
And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger,
The moon is but her silver car; Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,
And every wistful waiting star.
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.