A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/L'Enfant Mourant (Xavier Marmier)
L'ENFANT MOURANT.
I am tired, my mother, and the day is ending;
Let me lie softly on thy dear, dear breast,
But hide thy tears while thus above me bending:
Sad are thy sighs, they do not let me rest.
'Tis cold; and round us all the objects darken;
But while I sleep an angel form I see,
With brow resplendent, shedding rays,—and hearken!
Is that not music? And it comes for me.
What songs! What songs! Dost thou not hear them ringing?
Such songs in heaven we all must hear one day!
Nor see the angel, garlands for us bringing?
He beckons us. Oh, what has he to say?
He smiles, he speaks to me, and to none other;
What glorious hues! These are the flowers he throws;
Look at his wings. Shall I have wings, my mother,
And here on earth, as beautiful as those?
Why dost thou press me in thine arms so tightly?
Wherefore these sighs? I understand them not.
And whence these scalding tears that channel brightly
Thy cheek once pallid, now inflamed and hot?
My own dear mother thou shalt be for ever,
But weep not thus, for when I see thee weep
I suffer too. Adieu! Oh, mourn me never;
The angel clasps me. I but fall asleep.