Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/121

With many a gold laburnum tress,
Hang white blossom in warm June
O'er lowlands, tender as a tune
Of turtle-doves, o'er harebell-hued
Fair corn, fair meadow-land, and wood.
The trees win ampler foliage, height,
But all the soul hath taken flight
From the scene of our delight.
'Tis a warm night now of June;
And in the twilight of the moon
That glimmers on the nursery pane,
Under the window where we wept,
Under the window where he slept,
Behold! a wild wee flower is fain
To unclose soft eyes, though it be night,
Revealing a meek visage white,
A wild white flower, whose very bane
Is garish day, who blossoms only
In a twilight cool and lonely;
Here, where with bitter tears I wept,
Bitter tears for him who slept,
Tears for him who seemed to wane,
Lo! the little flower hath spoken,
The frail white blossom hath a token
For my faint spirit from her love;
It is an olive leaf the Dove
Brings for my solace from the wild,
Telling the deeps have not devoured my child,