PERADVENTURE
I am thinking to-night of the little child
That lay on my breast three summer days,
Then swiftly, silently, dropped from sight,
While my soul cried out in sore amaze.
That lay on my breast three summer days,
Then swiftly, silently, dropped from sight,
While my soul cried out in sore amaze.
It is fifteen years ago to-night;
Somewhere, I know, he has lived them through,
Perhaps with never a thought or dream
Of the mother-heart he never knew!
Somewhere, I know, he has lived them through,
Perhaps with never a thought or dream
Of the mother-heart he never knew!
Is he yet but a babe? or has he grown
To be like his brothers, fair and tall,
With a clear, bright eye, and a springing step,
And a voice that rings like a bugle call?
To be like his brothers, fair and tall,
With a clear, bright eye, and a springing step,
And a voice that rings like a bugle call?
I loved him. The rose in his waxen hand
Was wet with the dew of my falling tears;
I have kept the thought of my baby's grave
Through all the length of these changeful years.
Was wet with the dew of my falling tears;
I have kept the thought of my baby's grave
Through all the length of these changeful years.
Yet the love I gave him was not like that
I give to-day to my other boys,
Who have grown beside me, and turned to me
In all their griefs and in all their joys.
I give to-day to my other boys,
Who have grown beside me, and turned to me
In all their griefs and in all their joys.
Do you think he knows it? I wonder much
If the dead are passionless, cold, and dumb;
If into the calm of the deathless years
No thrill of a human love may come!
If the dead are passionless, cold, and dumb;
If into the calm of the deathless years
No thrill of a human love may come!
