18
So to the ark she fled,
With weary, drooping head,
To seek for rest;
Christ is thy ark, my love,
Thou art the timid dove,—
Fly to his breast.
Love to Brothers and Sisters.
I had a little friend,
And every day he crept
In sadness to his brother's tomb,
And laid him down and wept.
And when I ask'd him why
He mourn'd so long and sore;
He answer'd through his tears, "because
I did not love him more.
"Sometimes I was not kind,
And cross or coldly spake;"
And then he turn'd away, and sobb'd
As though his heart would break.
