Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/60

To this poor earth of ours!
To this poor earth of ours! So moaning
In fierce despair, amid the groaning
Of those evil blasts I heard
A still small voice, as of a bird.
Nay, bird had ne'er so sweet a voice,
Nor ever bird may so rejoice;
No spring that babbles in the summer,
Nor flower-enamoured fairy hummer!
What is it, Lord? can it be human?
Song of child, or song of woman?
Some loving Ariel doth toy
In self-abandonment of joy!
Like, yet unlike our vanished angel!
I know I deem it an evangel
From my darling, hovering
In the very storm, to sing
Near my yearning soul, to tell
What seems the blasphemy of hell
Is love, to him who loveth well!

… In bluest air the melody
On silver wings appears to fly;
And lo! in live germander blue
A threefold flower-cluster flew,
Child-seraphim, arrayed in white,
Fair with dewy eyes of light;
As when two swallows on the wing,