The Child
I MAY not lift him in my arms. His face I may not see--
Are angel hands more tender than a mother's hands may be?
And does he smile to hear the song an angel stole from me?
The wise King said, 'He cannot come but I will go to him!'
O David! did you seek with words to make the grave less grim?
And did you think to cheat, with words, the jealous seraphim?
So! he will learn of heaven--he, who scarcely knew the earth.
All fullness waits the baby eyes that never looked on dearth--
The mystery of death usurps the mystery of birth!
What light has earth to give me for the light that heaven beguiled?
What is the calm of heaven to him who has not known the wild?--
O, we are both bereft, bereft--the mother and the child!
The Dead Bride
WITHIN my circled arm she lay and faintly smiled the long night through,
And oh, but she was fair to view, fair to view!
Upon the whiteness of her robe the dew distilled, and on her veil
And on her cheek of carved pearl that gleamed so pale.
(How still the air is in the night, how near and kind the heavens are,
One might a naked hand outstretch and grasp a star!)
I kissed her heavy, folded hair. I kissed her heavy lids full oft;
Beneath the shining of the stars her eyes shone soft.
'Love, Love!' I said, 'the day was long'--'Oh, long indeed,' she sighing said.
'I grow so jealous of the sun, since I am dead.'
(How sweet the air is in the night, how sweet, sweet, sweet the flowers seem--
But oh, the emptiness of dawn that breaks the dream!)
