Poems (Brown)/Waiting
For works with similar titles, see Waiting.
WAITING.
An old man sat beneath a tree; His heavy locks were strayingAmong the breezes free and wild, That sweetly round were playing.
He raised his withered, aged hands Towards the heavens fair,And from those lips, so wan and thin, Went forth a fervent prayer.
"What makes you look so sad, grandpa?" Cried a sunny, fair-haired child.She had left her careless, happy play, And checked her laughter wild.
"My child!" the aged man replied, "I feel my days on earth are few;This withered form will ere long be Resting 'neath the evening's dew."
"Why, dearest grandpa!" cried the child, "You surely love your little girl; And if you leave this earthly home, Pray, who will stroke this pretty curl?
"Mamma, you know, has gone away, And little sister, too;And now, if grandpa leaves me here, What will poor Bella do?"
"I am waiting, little Bella," Said that old man bent and white,"For the summons that shall waft me To a land that's ever bright.
"I shall meet your mother, sister, In our happy home above,And together will sing praises To the God of truth and love."
Sadly gazed that little Bella On the grandsire whom she clasped,As he hushed her childish heart sobs: He was fading! fading! fast.
But one day, beneath the yew tree, Where the buttercups do peep,In the twilight's long gray hour, Bella and grandpa fell asleep.