Classic Poem

My little son, my little son, he calls to me for ever
Across the gulfs and through the mists which shroud him from my sight;
I hear him in the noonday, in the midst of all the turmoil,
I hear him, oh, so plainly, in the silence of the night.

My little son, my little son, I see in clearest vision
The merry face, the deep, clear eyes, the crown of golden hair.
But these, ah, these are sleeping where the hillside glows with sunset,
And the little boy, my darling that I loved so, is not there.

My little son, my little son, there are starry paths at night-time,
Above the swaying tree-tops where the birds are fast asleep;
Does he wander up and down them with the winds in endless play time?
Does he read in sudden manhood all the wonders of the deep?

My little son, my little son, he hovers ever near me,
I meet him in the garden walks, he speaks in wind and rain;
He comes and nestles by me on my pillow in the darkness,
Till the golden hands of sunrise draw him back to God again.