Page:Poems Greenwell.djvu/61

By waters' fall, or fleet
 Wind music, or the bird
Of morn,—these sounds are sweet,
 But they were still unheard.

Within the narrow street
 I stood beside a bed—
 I held a dying head
When the night and morning meet;
And every word was sweet,
 Though few the words we said.

And as we talked, dawn drew
 To day—the world was fair
In fields afar, I knew;
 Yet spoke not to him there
Of how the grasses grew.
 Besprent with dew-drops rare.

We spoke not of the sun,
 Nor of this green earth fair;
This soul, whose day was done,
 Had never claimed its share
 In these, and yet its rare
Rich heritage had won.

From the dark and narrow street
 Into a world of love
A child was born,—speak low,
Speak reverent, for we know
 Not how they speak above,
When the night and morning meet.