Poems (Chitwood)/One of Earth's Angels

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

ONE OF EARTH'S ANGELS.

She dwelt within a costly home,
 The gentle orphan child;
A fragrant wild-flower, east upon
 A desert bleak and wild;—
No smile she met from day to day;
No love-word as life swept away.

The garret was so dark and cold,
 As sat she there at night,
Her waving tresses, paly gold,
 Were all that made it light;
And sometimes, many tears were shed
Upon the scanty little bed.

Yet often, through the window high,
 She gazed, in hope, afar;
And now caught glimpses of the sky,
 And now of some small star;
And now she heard a wild bird sing,
And caught the rushing of its wing.

And sometimes, in the quiet night,
 Soft fingers ope'd her eyes;
And then it seemed her room was light
 As June's delicious skies;
And low, sweet thrilling sounds were made,
As if an unseen harp was played.

Oh, then life's burdens from her heart
 Were lifted far away,
And she could bear to live apart
 From worldly love by day;
And hear, unmoved, the sounds of mirth,
That floated up from household hearth.

One night there glittered on the sky
 A strange, bright shining star;
It seemed a bright and sunny eye,
 Soft gazing from afar;
And then, a sylph-like form of light,
Wrapped in a cloud of fleecy white.

When gently fell the day-light beams
 Upon the low straw bed,
When she had dreamed, as many dreamed,
 The orphan child lay dead;
For up the lonely garret stair,
The angels found a sister fair.