Poems (Chitwood)/That Little Hand

by Mary Louisa Chitwood

THAT LITTLE HAND.

Oh tell me not that he is dead!
 He is not lost to me.
His gentle wings are o'er me spread—
 Their light I can not see.

His little hand is in mine own,
 How oft I feel it thrill!
Oh no, I never am alone,
 For he is with me still.

His little hand, so frail and fair!
 I held it when he died,
As, with an agonizing prayer,
 I knelt me by his side.

I felt its quiver and its clasp,
 I heard his gentle moan;
And then, like snow-flakes was the grasp
 That weakened in mine own.

I know these little fingers white
 Have moldered into clay;
But oh! the hand I held that night
 Has never passed away.

And never has that tone been mute,
 Or that love lost to me:
His voice comes to me like a lute,
 From lips I can not sec.

That little hand, when all alone,
 Dark Sorrow's cup I drain,
Seems pressing closer in mine own
 Then how can I complain?

And when the storm-clouds o'er me rise,
 Nor light comes with the day,
That little hand is o'er mine eyes,
 To wipe their mists away.

Oh, death is not forgetfulness!
 It is not utter loss:
Our dear ones do not love us less
 When they the death-gulf cross.

Oh, thou sweet cherub—gentle dove,
 From storms forever flown,
Let thy light spirit-hand of love
 Forever clasp mine own.

And when the cares of life are o'er,
 May angels near me stand,
And lead me to a lovelier shore,
 By that dear little hand.