Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/Child's Faith
CHILD'S-FAITH.
These beautiful tales, I trust, are true. But here is a grave in the moss,And there is the sky. And the buds are blue, And a butterfly blows across.
Yes, here is the grave and there is the sky;— To the one or the other we go.And between them wavers the butterfly, Like a soul that does not know,
Somewhere? Nowhere? Too-golden head, And lips that I miss and miss,You would tell me the secret of the dead— Could I find you with a kiss!
. . . Come here, I say, little child of mine, Come with your bloom and breath.(If he should believe in the life divine, I will not believe in death!)
"Where is your brother?"—I question low, And wait for his wise reply.Does he say, "Down there in the grave?" Ah, no;— He says, with a laugh, "In the sky!"