AT the close of the day, when the year was a-dying,

From the chilly north to the southern sun,

High in the sky came the wild swans flying—

(Great white wings had each glorious one),—

And a snowy feather fluttered down

On the muddy street of a dirty town.

Poverty passed, and wealth came speeding;

Business and pleasure turned their wheels;

But the feather lay, as men trod, unheeding,

Stamped and crushed by a thousand heels.

And the message it brought remained untold,

Save to a child with a head of gold.

Up in a garret, all tearfully fretting,

She peeped in her rags through the broken pane;

And she clapped her hands with delight, forgetting

Hunger and misery, cold, and the rain,

As the strange white thing caught her wondering eye,

Dropped down from nowhere, out of the sky.

And she cried as it fell, with the faith of seven,

(Fanciful, credulous, innocent elf):

"Look, mother, look! Here's a letter from Heaven!

God didn't forget us—He's written Himself!"

Was it useless, that feather that so fluttered down

On the muddy street of a dirty town?

LAST night, and there came a guest,

And we shuddered, my wife and I;

A guest, and I could not speak;

A guest, and she could but cry;

And he went, but with no good-bye.

A little before the dawn

He came, but he did not stay;

And he left us alone with our tears,

For he carried our babe away.

Was there ever a sadder day!

Had you ever a babe of a year,

With curls on a tiny head,

With limbs like the peach's bloom,

And learnt that your babe was dead?—

Could you have been comforted?

Had it bound itself to your heart,

As with fairy gossamer strand,

Slight as that of the worm,

Strong as the hempen band

Which holds tall ships to the land?

Did you look in its baby eyes

As your treasure lay on your knee,

And wonder what things they saw,

And see, what they could not see,

The life that was yet to be?

Did it lie at your breast day by day

While you gathered it near and more near?

Did it sleep on your bosom by night,

Ever growing so dear, oh, so dear,—

Your darling, your babe of a year;

While you dreamed of the wonder you held,

A thing of so perfect a plan,

Of the wonderful mystery of birth,

Of the wonderful mystery of man,

As only a mother can,—

Till your heart, like a human thing,

Seemed to yearn for the child at your side—

Yearn to gather it in to itself,

To the love that swept up, like a tide

Whose fulness is ever denied?

If to you came that terrible guest

We so dreaded, my wife and I,

You will know why I could not speak,

You will know why she could but cry—

You have seen your own baby die.