Poems (Curwen)/Marian
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.