THE QUESTION
Now here is where I fail to understand,
And put my question in all reverence,
On bended Imee with head most lowly bent,
To the All-High, All-Knowing Providence.
••••••
A girl whose fate had left her widowed poor,
with three small babes to shelter and direct.
Rose to the burden, glad in her own strength,
Of those young minds to be sole architect:
Up with the lark and singing with his song,
Of hope and love, watched by her helpless brood,
Toiled in the night when sdl but she had slept.
And wore her soft hands rough to bring them food.
At each sweet morn she opened wide the door
All to the sun, so that a golden ray
Would pierce the gloom, and like a torch of flame
Light up the bed where her three treasures lay.
Soft would she say, “See God's bright angel come
To bless my babes and chase away the night”:
Then would she bend, all hungry in her love.
To kiss each waking child with new delight.
Each tender body she would robe with pride
And awe unceasing at the beauties shown,
In dimpled limb and cheek and silken hair,
In all the loveliness she called her own.
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