Poems (Piatt)/Volume 2/No Help
NO HELP.
When will the flowers grow there? I cannot tell.
Oh, many and many a rain will beat there first,
Stormy and dreary, such as never fell
Save when the heart was breaking that had nursed
Something most dear a little while, and then
Murmured at giving God his own again.
Oh, many and many a rain will beat there first,
Stormy and dreary, such as never fell
Save when the heart was breaking that had nursed
Something most dear a little while, and then
Murmured at giving God his own again.
The woods were full of violets, I know;
And some wild sweet-briers grew so near the place:
Their time is not yet come. Dead leaves and snow
Must cover first the darling little face
From these wet eyes, forever fixed upon
Your last still cradle, O most precious one!
And some wild sweet-briers grew so near the place:
Their time is not yet come. Dead leaves and snow
Must cover first the darling little face
From these wet eyes, forever fixed upon
Your last still cradle, O most precious one!
Is he not with his Father? So I trust.
Is he not His? Was he not also mine?
His mother's empty arms yearn toward the dust.
Heaven lies too high, the soul is too divine.
I wake at night and miss him from my breast,
And—human words can never say the rest.
Is he not His? Was he not also mine?
His mother's empty arms yearn toward the dust.
Heaven lies too high, the soul is too divine.
I wake at night and miss him from my breast,
And—human words can never say the rest.
Safe? But out of the world, out of my sight!
My way to him through utter darkness lies.
I am gone blind with weeping, and the light—
If there be light—is shut inside the skies.
Think you, to give my bosom back his breath,
I would not kiss him from the peace called Death?
My way to him through utter darkness lies.
I am gone blind with weeping, and the light—
If there be light—is shut inside the skies.
Think you, to give my bosom back his breath,
I would not kiss him from the peace called Death?
And do I want a little Angel? No,
I want my baby—with such piteous pain,
That were this bitter life thrice bitter, oh!
I could not choose but take him back again.
God cannot help me, for God cannot break
His own dark Law—for my poor sorrow's sake.
I want my baby—with such piteous pain,
That were this bitter life thrice bitter, oh!
I could not choose but take him back again.
God cannot help me, for God cannot break
His own dark Law—for my poor sorrow's sake.