| |
| A LITTLE fair soul that knew no sin | |
| Look’d over the edge of Paradise, | |
| And saw one striving to come in, | |
| With fear and tumult in his eyes. | |
| |
| “Oh, brother, is it you?” he cried; | 5 |
| “Your face is like a breath from home; | |
| Why do you stay so long outside? | |
| I am athirst for you to come! | |
| |
| “Tell me first how our mother fares, | |
| And has she wept too much for me?” | 10 |
| “White are her cheeks and white her hairs, | |
| But not from gentle tears for thee.” | |
| |
| “Tell me, where are our sisters gone?” | |
| “Alas, I left them weary and wan.” | |
| “And tell me is the baby grown?” | 15 |
| “Alas! he is almost a man. | |
| |
| “Cannot you break the gathering days, | |
| And let the light of death come through, | |
| Ere his feet stumble in the maze | |
| Cross’d safely by so few, so few? | 20 |
| |
| “For like a crowd upon the sea | |
| That darkens till you find no shore, | |
| So was that face of life to me, | |
| Until I sank for evermore; | |
| |
| “And like an army in the snow | 25 |
| My days went by, a treacherous train, | |
| Each smiling as he struck his blow, | |
| Until I lay among them slain.” | |
| |
| “Oh, brother, there was a path so clear!” | |
| “There might be, but I never sought.” | 30 |
| “Oh, brother, there was a sword so near!” | |
| “There might be, but I never fought.” | |
| |
| “Yet sweep this needless gloom aside, | |
| For you are come to the gate at last!” | |
| Then in despair that soul replied, | 35 |
| “The gate is fast, the gate is fast!” | |
| |
| “I cannot move this mighty weight, | |
| I cannot find this golden key ’ | |
| But hosts of heaven around us wait, | |
| And none has ever said ‘No’ to me. | 40 |
| |
| “Sweet Saint, put by thy palm and scroll, | |
| And come and undo the door for me!” | |
| “Rest thee still, thou little pure heart, | |
| It is not mine to keep the key.” | |
| |
| “Kind Angel, strike these doors apart! | 45 |
| The air without is dark and cold.” | |
| “Rest thee still, thou little pure heart, | |
| Not for my word will they unfold.” | |
| |
| Up all the shining heights he pray’d | |
| For that poor Shadow in the cold! | 50 |
| Still came the word, “Not ours to aid; | |
| We cannot make the doors unfold.” | |
| |
| But that poor Shadow, still outside, | |
| Wrung all the sacred air with pain; | |
| And all the souls went up and cried | 55 |
| Where never cry was heard in vain. | |
| |
| No eye beheld the pitying Face, | |
| The answer none might understand, | |
| But dimly through the silent space | |
| And seen the stretching of a Hand. | 60 |
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