Page:Poems PiattVol2.djvu/124

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NO HELP.
When will the flowers grow there? I cannot tell.
Oh, many and many a rain will beat there first,
Stormy and dreary, such as never fell
Save when the heart was breaking that had nursed
Something most dear a little while, and then
Murmured at giving God his own again.

The woods were full of violets, I know;
And some wild sweet-briers grew so near the place:
Their time is not yet come. Dead leaves and snow
Must cover first the darling little face
From these wet eyes, forever fixed upon
Your last still cradle, O most precious one!

Is he not with his Father? So I trust.
Is he not His? Was he not also mine?
His mother's empty arms yearn toward the dust.
Heaven lies too high, the soul is too divine.

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