Ah, well I know 'tis wrong of me, who fain
⁠Would hold my darling from the Lord that gave
⁠Of his great love the boon my heart did crave,
And now would take unto himself again.

Ye do say well — 'tis wrong, I know, I know!
⁠But all the agony of heart, the plann'd
⁠Sweet joys laid waste, ye cannot understand,
Who ne’er gave up what you bid me forego.

Oh, do not ask a mother that hath known
⁠The blissful bitter birth of him, if she
⁠Were not more glad he should an angel be,
Than live on but a child to call her own!

No more with those soft locks of golden hair
⁠To dally, and my fondling fingers weave;
⁠No more to hearken every morn and eve
The pretty lisping of his infant prayer!

No more to soothe his little aches and cries,
⁠Watch him at gambol or in rosy rest;
⁠No more to catch him wildly to my breast,
And see all Heaven in his deep blue eyes!

Ah, never, never more to feel the fond
⁠Soft tendril arms around my neck entwine,
⁠And strain him in my own, all mine! all mine!
Fill'd with sweet joy, all other joys beyond.

Ye know not — God forgive me, if I dare
⁠To plead with him! Father, oh, could he be
⁠In Heaven with the angels and with thee,
Liker themselves than now, more pure, more fair?

Take him not from me, lest bereavement’s bane
⁠Might slay my soul with cruel, hopeless grief,
⁠And poison of rebellious disbelief,
So I should never see his face again!

For strongest faith is tried by fondest love,
⁠That to its idol clings with heedless hold;
⁠Dumb, blind, and blunted to the manifold
Warnings below, or whispers from above.

Lord, pardon me! That thou shouldst yearn to take
⁠The blessed guerdon back, it is most meet;
⁠Thyself it was who madest him so sweet,
Thou well may'st crave him for the sweetness' sake.

Yea, Lord, thy will be done! Still, if it be
⁠Thine own good pleasure, who didst freely give
⁠What I so grudge to render, let him live,
That I may know thou art not vex'd with me.

Yea, if but for a season. Haply I,
⁠Sore striving, and in very overflow
⁠Of my unbounded gratitude, may grow
Better, O God, and stronger, by-and-by.

Unless — and who may know? save thee, most dread,
⁠Most merciful! for all ‘twere only right,
⁠According to our poor weak human sight —
Thou shouldst be pleased to take me in his stead.

Nay, do not heed me, Lord — thy will be done!
⁠Take to thyself, or suffer yet to live;
⁠And — for thou knowest all my heart — forgive
The mother in the love of thy dear Son.

Winter is on us, but not yet the snow;
⁠The hills are etched on the horizon, bare,
⁠The skies are iron grey, a bitter air,
With meagre clouds that shudder as they go;
One yellow leaf the listless wind doth blow
⁠Like some new butterfly, unclassed and rare;
⁠Your footsteps ring in frozen alleys, where
The black trees seem to shiver as you go.

Beyond lie church and steeple, and their old
⁠And rusty vanes that rattle as they veer —
A sharper gust would shock them from their hold.
⁠Yet up that path, in Maytime of the year,
And past that dreary ruined tower we strolled
⁠To pluck wild strawberries with summer cheer!

Sleep, and in peace? How canst thou?
⁠And know I am still alive?
Back comes the old wrath, and straightway
⁠My yoke in sunder I rive.

Dost know the old-world legend,
⁠How once a youth that was dead
At midnight drew his loved one
⁠Down to his churchyard bed?

Oh trust me, thou beauteous wonder,
⁠Of all sweet the sweetest far,
I live, yes, live, and am stronger
⁠Than legions of dead men are!