Poems (Allen)/The Clay-Child
HEN the footsteps of the New On the Old were pressing,One who knew my life to be Aching for a blessing Gave the Clay-child, sleeping here, To my fond caressing.
THE CLAY-CHILD.
HEN the footsteps of the New On the Old were pressing,One who knew my life to be Aching for a blessing Gave the Clay-child, sleeping here, To my fond caressing. Clipping first the folded wings Crossed its round throat under, Lest, grown weary of my care, It might choose to wander Back into the purple light Of the far heaven yonder.
Saying, "In the nurture true Of your soul-love rear it; Let no rude or evil thing Ever linger near it; Keep as now its perfectness Pure, in face and spirit."
So I took it to my head With a mother's yearning, Loving it with heart and eyes, Asking no returning,—Loving it with many tears, Yet no answer earning.
Born of Peace, for which my soul Pineth, all ungifted, Never are thy drooping lids O my Clay-child, lifted,—Never is the mystic veil Which divides us rifted.
Wherefore, though my prayerful knee Never may be bended, Thou shalt be my silent prayer, Prayer with patience blended. Through thy lips I ask thy peace, Perfect, heaven-descended!