Page:Poems Brown.djvu/80

Twines her hands about my forehead,
 And I seem to hear her sigh;
Then, with finger pointing upward,
 Beckons me, and whispers low,
Till I bow my head in anguish,
 And pray for strength to bear the blow.

Then there softly steals another,
 Clad in spotless virgin white,
Whispers low the name of "Father,"
 In the lonely hour of night;
Loving arms are raised in triumph,
 Dark eyes beam with silent love,
Till again I seem to fold her
 In my arms—my precious dove.

Now two boyish forms do enter;
 One hangs 'bout me, on my chair,
While the other softly glances
 Toward the angels, waiting there.
In each hand they bear a shining
 Golden harp and sweet-toned lyre,
Strung with gems and sparkling crystals—
 Angel harps for all the choir.