Like a vision seems it still:
Let me have of tears my fill.
<g>Help</g> me so myself to see,—
What I am, and ought to be!
Brand,—last night, in stillest hush,
Open'd he my chamber door,
On his cheek a rosy flush,
And his little shirt he wore,—
Toddled so with childish tread
To the couch where I lay lonely,
"Mother!" call'd to me, and spread
Both his arms, and smiled, but only
As if praying: "Make me warm."
Yea, I saw!—Oh, my heart bled
Brand.
Agnes!
Agnes.
Ah, his little form
Was a-cold, Brand! Needs it must,
Pillow'd in the chilly dust.
Brand.
That which lies beneath the sod
Is the <g>corse</g>; the child's with God.
Agnes.
[Shrinking from him.]
Oh, canst thou without remorse
Thus our bleeding anguish tear?
What thou sternly call'st the corse—
Ah, to me, my child is <g>there</g>!
Where is body, there is soul:
These apart I cannot keep,
Each is unto me the whole;
