Child life: a collection of poems . n to the child I whispered, The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall I 222 CHILD LIFE. Then, Tvith eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; And she, kissing back, could not knowThat my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow, — James Russell Lowell. CHILD AND MOTHER. LoTE thy mother, little one !Kiss and clasp her neck again !Hereafter she may have a sonWill kiss and clasp her neck in thy mother, little one ! Gaze upon her living mirror back her love for thee !Hereafter thou may st shud
Child life: a collection of poems . n to the child I whispered, The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall I 222 CHILD LIFE. Then, Tvith eyes that saw not, I kissed her ; And she, kissing back, could not knowThat my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow, — James Russell Lowell. CHILD AND MOTHER. LoTE thy mother, little one !Kiss and clasp her neck again !Hereafter she may have a sonWill kiss and clasp her neck in thy mother, little one ! Gaze upon her living mirror back her love for thee !Hereafter thou may st shudder sighsTo meet them when they cannot upon her living eyes ! Press her lips, the while they glow,With love that they have often told !Hereafter thou may st press in kiss them till thine own are her lips, the while they glow I Oh, revere her raven hair, —-Although it be not silver gray !Too early, Death, led on by snatch save one dear lock , revere her raven hair 1 MISCELLANEO US. 223. Pray for her at eve and morn,That Heaven may long the stroke defer ;For thou may st live the hour forlorn,When thou wilt ask to die with for her at eve and morn ! — Tliomas Hood- CHILD LIFE. A COMFORTER. Will she come to me, little Effie ? Will she come in my arms to rest,And nestle her head on my shoulder, While the sun goes down in the west ? I and Effie will sit together. All alone, in this great arm-chair : — Is it silly to mind it, darling,When life is so hard to bear ? No one comforts me like my Eifie ; Yet I think she does not try, —Only looks with a wistful wonder Why groivn people should ever cry ; While her little soft arms close tighterRound my neck in their clinging hold ; Well, I must not cry on your hair, dear,For my tears might tarnish the gold. I am tired of trying to read, dear ; It is worse to talk and seem gay :There are some kinds of sorrow, Effie, It is useless to thrust away. But my comforter knows a lessonWiser,
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