Poems (Storrie)/Little Son

by Agnes Louisa Storrie

Little Son.

The days are passing, one by one,
 Through a shadowy door,
Blithely we see them enter,
 They return no more.

Where do they go, and why,
 Out of our view?
Little son, give me your hand,
 We're going too.

Some day—perhaps some night,
 No one can tell—
We shall pass through that door,
 All will be well.

Pass from all yesterdays,
 That will be good,
Then we shall understand,
 And be understood.

Death keeps that shadowy door,
 And one by one
We shall pass through it,
 Dear little son.

Look at him steadily,
 With quiet breath,
This keeper of the door,
 Mortals call Death.

Look at him steadily,
 Knowing it true
That he only lifts the latch,
 We shall pass through,

Into a brighter day,
 Shielded from sorrow,
The goal of every soul,
 God's great To-morrow.