TO A HURT CHILD Time was when the little toy dog was new, And the soldier was passing fair; 215 And that was the time when our Little Boy Blue Kissed them and put them there. "Now, don't you go till I come," he said, Oh! the years are many, the years are long, Ay, faithful to Little Boy Blue they stand, Awaiting the touch of a little hand, The smile of a little face; And they wonder, as waiting the long years through In the dust of that little chair, What has become of our Little Boy Blue, Since he kissed them and put them there. TO A HURT CHILD Eugene Field. WHAT, are you hurt, Sweet? So am I; Though I may neither moan nor cry, Where was it, Love? Just here! So wide Oh happy pain that needs no pride, Lay here your pretty head. One touch While I, whose wound bleeds overmuch, There, Sweet. Run back now to your play, I too was sorely hurt this day, But no one knows. Grace Denio Litchfield. THE HOUSE OF PAIN UNTO the Prison House of Pain none willingly repair,The bravest who an entrance gain Reluctant linger there, For Pleasure, passing by that door, stays not to cheer the sight, And Sympathy but muffles sound and banishes the light. Yet in the Prison House of Pain things full of beauty blow, Like Christmas-roses, which attain Perfection 'mid the snow, Love, entering, in his mild warmth the darkest shadows melt, And often, where the hush is deep, the waft of wings is felt. THE WIND OF SORROW 217 Ah, me! the Prison House of Pain! - what lessons there are bought! Lessons of a sublimer strain Than any elsewhere taught, Amid its loneliness and bloom, grave meanings grow more clear, For to no earthly dwelling-place seems God so strange ly near! Florence Earle Coates. THE SUNSHINE OF THINE EYES THE sunshine of thine eyes, (O still, celestial beam!) Whatever it touches it fills With the life of its lambent gleam. The sunshine of thine eyes, O let it fall on me! Though I be but a mote of the air, I could turn to gold for thee! George Parsons Lathrop. THE WIND OF SORROW THE fire of love was burning, yet so low That in the dark we scarce could see its rays, And in the light of perfect-placid days Nothing but smouldering embers dull and slow. Vainly, for love's delight, we sought to throw New pleasures on the pyre to make it blaze: In life's calm air and tranquil-prosperous ways We missed the radiant heat of long ago. Then in the night, a night of sad alarms, Bitter with pain and black with fog of fears, That drove us trembling to each other's arms Across the gulf of darkness and salt tears, Into life's calm the wind of sorrow came, And fanned the fire of love to clearest flame. Henry van Dyke. THE VEERY THE moonbeams over Arno's vale in silver flood were pouring, When first I heard the nightingale a long-lost love de ploring. So passionate, so full of pain, it sounded strange and The laverock sings a bonny lay above the Scottish heather; It sprinkles down from far away like light and love together; He drops the golden notes to greet his brooding mate, his dearie; I only know one song more sweet, the vespers of the veery. In English gardens, green and bright and full of fruity treasure, I heard the blackbird with delight repeat his merry measure: JOY OF THE MORNING 219 The ballad was a pleasant one, the tune was loud and cheery, And yet, with every setting sun, I listened for the veery. But far away, and far away, the tawny thrush is sing ing; New England woods, at close of day, with that clear chant are ringing: And when my light of life is low, and heart and flesh are weary, I fain would hear, before I go, the wood-notes of the veery. Henry van Dyke. JOY OF THE MORNING I HEAR you, little bird, Shouting a-swing above the broken wall. Oft when the white still dawn Lifted the skies and pushed the hills apart, (The world's mysterious stir) But had no throat like yours, my bird, Nor such a listener. Edwin Markham. |