Poems (Allen)/The Clay-Child

by Elizabeth Chase Allen

THE CLAY-CHILD.

HEN the footsteps of the New
 On the Old were pressing,
One who knew my life to be
 Aching for a blessing
Gave the Clay-child, sleeping here,
 To my fond caressing.

Clipping first the folded wings
 Crossed its round throat under,
Lest, grown weary of my care,
 It might choose to wander
Back into the purple light
 Of the far heaven yonder.

Saying, "In the nurture true
 Of your soul-love rear it;
Let no rude or evil thing
 Ever linger near it;
Keep as now its perfectness
 Pure, in face and spirit."

So I took it to my head
 With a mother's yearning,
Loving it with heart and eyes,
 Asking no returning,—
Loving it with many tears,
 Yet no answer earning.

Born of Peace, for which my soul
 Pineth, all ungifted,
Never are thy drooping lids
 O my Clay-child, lifted,—
Never is the mystic veil
 Which divides us rifted.

Wherefore, though my prayerful knee
 Never may be bended,
Thou shalt be my silent prayer,
 Prayer with patience blended.
Through thy lips I ask thy peace,
 Perfect, heaven-descended!