Poems (Tynan)/The Dead Son

by Katharine Tynan

THE DEAD SON

The boy was in the clay;
 The mother was weeping still
From dawn to evening gray
 When stars looked over the hill.
Between the dawn and dark,
 The night and day between,
About the stillest hour of mirk
 O, who is this comes in?

He did not lift the latch,
 He came without a sound,
He stood within a moonlit patch,
 A space of holy ground.
His robe was to his feet,
 All of the fair silk fine,
The gold curls were soft and sweet
 That she was used to twine.

But on his hair of silk
 There was a drift like rain,
His robe as white as milk
 Did show a piteous stain.
"O mother, mother!" he said,
 "Your tears have wet me through;
I am come from the blessed dead
 To try and comfort you.

"The other children play;
 But when I would rejoice,
O mother, I hear from far away
 The crying of your voice!
Your tears are heavy as lead;
 I cannot run, nor leap:
O mother, mother, mother," he said,
 "I pray you not to weep!"

The red cock and the black
 Crew, and her lamb was gone;
She rose and set the window back
 And welcomed in the dawn.
She swept the sanded floor,
 And made the fire to burn,
With all her weeping done and o'er.
 God comfort them that mourn!