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A CHILD'S GRAVE AT FLORENCE.
XIV.
Her very mother with light feet
Should leave the place too earthy,
Saying, "The angels have thee, sweet,
Because we are not worthy."
XV.
But winter kills the orange-buds,—
The gardens in the frost are;
And all the heart dissolves in floods,
Remembering we have lost her!
XVI.
Poor earth, poor heart!—too weak, too weak,
To miss the July shining!
Poor heart!—what bitter words we speak,
When God speaks of resigning!
XVII.
Sustain this heart in us, that faints,
Thou God, the self-existent!
We catch up wild at parting saints,
And feel thy Heaven too distant!
XVIII.
The wind that swept them out of sin,
Has ruffled all our vesture:
On the shut door that let them in,
We beat with frantic gesture;
