This page has been validated.
XXVI
THE SICK CHILD
| Child. | O mother, lay your hand on my brow! O mother, mother, where am I now? Why is the room so gaunt and great? Why am I lying awake so late? |
| Mother. | Fear not at all: the night is still. Nothing is here that means you ill— Nothing but lamps the whole town through, And never a child awake but you. |
| Child. | Mother, mother, speak low in my ear, Some of the things are so great and near, |
