  Pale little feet, grown quiet ere they could run One step in life’s strange journey; sweet lips chilled To silence ere they prattled; small hands stilled Before one stroke of life’s long toil was done; Uncreased white brows that laurels might have won, Yet leave their spacious promise unfulfilled— O baby dead, I cannot think God willed Your life should end when it had scarce begun! If no man died till his long life should leave All hopes and aims fulfilled, until his feet Had trod all paths where men rejoice or grieve, I might have doubt of future life more sweet; But as I look on you, I must believe There is a heaven that makes this earth complete. |
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