Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/115

Of his white spirit; here the flame
Of Love's own life burned holily
On the moorland; his birth-name
The heather gave him; home to die
Amid the heath he journeyed; here
His baby form, that was so dear,
The lovely form we loved so well,
Lies under the heather-bell.

I think my ghost will haunt the place,
Even when I behold thy face
Glassed in some celestial lake,—
I love it so for thy dear sake.
But ah! if we were only sure!
Were only seeing thee secure,
Even afar off, now and then,
I were the happiest of men!

Aspens whisper in grey air,
Whisper as they whispered when,
Playing among them blithe and fair,
He drew my soul from a dark den
Of dismal shadows with his song;
Whisper like a gentle throng
Of spirits murmuring "Rejoice!"
To me, who faint for his dear voice,
Wandering ever in the wild
Till I find my little child,