Classic Poem

What if my soul is left to me?
Oh! sweeter than my soul was he
Its breast broods on a coffin lid;
Its empty eyes stare at the dust,
Tears follow tears, for treasure hid
Forevermore from moth and rust.

The sky a shadow is; how much
I long for something I can touch!
God is a silence: could I hear
Him whisper once, — Poor child, — to me!
God is a dream, a hope, a fear,
A vision — that the seraphs see.

— Woman, why weepest thou? — One said,
To His own mother, from the dead.
If He should come to mock me now,
Here in my utter loneliness,
And say to me, — Why weepest thou? —
I wonder would I weep the less

Or, could I, through these endless tears,
Look high into the lovely spheres
And see him there my little child —
Nursed tenderly at Mary's breast,
Would not my sorrow be as wild?
Christ help me. Who shall say the rest?

There is no comfort anywhere
My baby's clothes, my baby's hair,
My baby's grave are all I know
What could have hurt my baby? Why,
Why did he come; why did he go?
And shall I have him by and by?

Poor grave of mine, so strange, so small,
You cover all, you cover all!
The flush of every flower, the dew,
The bird's old song, the heart's old trust,
The star's fair light, the darkness, too,
Are hidden in your heavy dust.

Oh! but to kiss his little feet,
And say to them, — So sweet, so sweet, —
I would give up whatever pain
(What else is there to give, I say?)
This wide world holds Again, again,
I yearn to follow him away

My cry is but a human cry
Who grieves for angels? Do they die?
Oh! precious hands, as still as snows,
How your white fingers hold my heart!
Yet keep your buried buds of rose,
Though earth and Heaven are far apart.

The grief is bitter. Let me be
He lies beneath that lonesome tree
I've heard the fierce rain beating there
Night covers it with cold moonshine
Despair can only be despair
God has his will I have not mine.