THE CHILD
Lone played the child within the magic wood,
Where fountains sang and sunshine ever glowed;
Half-hid among red roses on his way,
He came at last upon a dark abode.
He knew not sorrow, and when cries came forth
Of bitter grief, he could not choose but stay,
And turned from joyous paths his dancing feet,
To see what wonder in that dim house lay—
Met at the door a woodman stern and cold,
Who looked into the sunshine with blind eyes,
And saw behind him, with a hidden face,
One who made sad the wind with sudden cries.
“And who are you,” the man looked up and spoke,
“Who comes thus singing to the home of grief?”
“I am a babe,” the little child replied,
“Who finds the world all fair beyond belief.”
And at his voice the woman stayed her cries,
And at his laugh she raised her hidden face.
“Dark is the day and drear the world,” she said,
“And lives no beauty in this barren place.”
“Drear is the earth,” the man spoke with a sigh;
“Cold is the sun that long has ceased to shine;
Chill is our house set in a desert place,
And Grief and Sorrow on our hearth repine.”
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