Classic Poem

The wind blew wide the casement, and within—
It was the loveliest picture! a sweet child
Lay in its mother's arms, and drew its life,
In pauses, from the fountain,—the white round,
Part shaded by loose tresses, soft and dark,
Concealing, but still showing, the fair realm
Of so much rapture, as green shadowing trees
With beauty shroud the brooklet. The red lips
Were parted, and the cheek upon the breast
Lay close, and, like the young leaf of the flower,
Wore the same color—rich, and warm, and fresh:—
And such alone are beautiful. Its eye,
A full, blue gem, most exquisitely set,
Look'd archly on its world—the little imp,
As if it knew, even then, that such a wealth
Were not for all;—and with its playful hands
It drew aside the robe that hid its realm,
And peep'd and laugh'd aloud, and so it laid
Its head upon the shrine of such pure joys,
And laughing, slept. And while it slept, the tears
Of the sweet mother fell upon its cheek—
Tears, such as fall from April skies, and bring
The sunlight after. They were tears of joy;
And the true heart of that young mother then
Grew lighter, and she sang unconsciously
The silliest ballad-song that ever yet
Subdued the nursery's voices, and brought sleep
To fold her sabbath wings above its couch.