Poems (Crandall)/The Child

by Rosa Neil Crandall

The Child

A gracious child whose lovely face
  Still beamed with the night of Heaven,
Whose lips still wore the happy smile
  An angel's kiss had given.

And the parents hearts by the dimpled hands
  Were pressed so close together,
They called them one, nor ever dreamed
  That aught their heart could sever.

She twined bright flowers in the mothers hair,
  But the mother could not keep her;
With a laugh she sprang to her father's arms,
  And the light in his eye grew deeper.

A few bright years, and the happy face
  Had lost its innocent gladness;
And in the depths of those wonderful eyes
  Lay a look of reproachful sadness.

And stiller and weaker day by day
  She clung to her mother sighing,
And the mother wept through the long dark nights
  For her beautiful child that was dying.

At last with bruised and bleeding heart
  She lay with pain all ashiver;
The mother clasped her in her arms
  Each sensitive nerve aquiver.

She pressed her lips to the sunny curls,
  Till ceased the pitiful moaning;
And then that she with her child might die
  She prayed with sobs and groaning.

And when the father sought his child;
  The mother sad and tearful,
Said, "Oh, my husband, our child is dead,"
  His face grew pale and fearful.

She beckoned him into the shaded room
  And stood by, silently weeping;
"Oh wake her, wake her," he hoarsely cried,
  "I know she is only sleeping."

He kissed the cold and clammy face
  Once full of life and gladness,
He smoothed her curls, he chaffed her hands,
  He raised her up in his madness.

Too late—too late—your loving words
  Can stir her pulses never;
Yours be the cold and lifeless form.
  But the soul has gone forever.

O heavenly child, sweet be thy sleep
  Among the saintly dead.
What a sad, sad thing, is the form of Love
  When the beautiful soul has fled.