When the great day is done, That seems so long, So full of fret and fun, Our little girl is in her cradle laid: She takes the soft dark-petaled flower of sleep Between her fragile hands, Striving to pluck it: And as the dream-roots slowly part, She is not in possession of the lands, Where flowered her tender heart, Nor in this turmoil dire of cark and strife, Which we call life, The which, husbanding all our art, We will keep veiled until the latest day, And from her wrapt away: Then when the drowsy flower Has parted from the dreamful mead, And in her palm lies plucked indeed, When her dear breathing steadies after sighs, And the soft lids have clouded the blue eyes, A tiny hand falls on my cheek— Lightly and so fragrantly As if a snow-flake could a rose-leaf be— And in the dark touches a tear Which has sprung clear, From eyes unconscious of their own distress, At the deep pathos of such tender helplessness. And then she claims her sleep, As if she knows my love and trusts it deep. Dear God! to whom the bravest of us is a child, When I am weary, when I cannot rest, I have stretched out my hand into the dark, And felt the shadow stark, Nor any tear Compassionately wept: I have not slept. But now I learn my lesson from the sage, Who burns his lore with acid on the heart; I will not whimper when I feel the smart, And for my comfort will look down, not up; I will give ever from a brimming sky, Not telling how or why; I will be answered in this little child, I will be reconciled.
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