Page:Poems Tynan.djvu/149

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.

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