Poems (Curwen)/Marian

by Annie Isabel Curwen

Marian.

An angel passing our isle this morn,
 On her way to Paradise,
Beheld a little storm-tossed flower,
 With sweet, compassionate eyes;
And, stooping, plucked it for her Lord,
 Then mounted to the skies.

The last-born, light of papa's eyes,
 With silken hair of gold,
Is lying in her snowy cot,
 So still, so white, so cold.
Ah! but the little lamb is safe
 In the tender Shepherd's fold.

Another tiny, white-robed form
 Toddles 'mid Eden's bowers;
Another pair of dimpled hands
 Pluck everlasting flowers;
Another pair of wondering eyes
 See all that's hid from ours.

There are no tangled pathways there
 For her dear feet to tread,
There are no bitter tears of grief
 For her sweet eyes to shed;
And so, dear God, we thank Thee, though
 The dear loved child is dead.