A little child, one night, awoke and cried, "Oh, help me, father! there is something wild Before me! help me!" Hurrying to his side I answered, "I am here. You dreamed, my child."
"A dream?--" he questioned. "Oh, I could not see! It was so dark!--Take me into your bed!"-- And I, who loved him, held him soothingly, And smiling on his terror, comforted.
He nestled in my arms. I held him fast; And spoke to him and calmed his childish fears, Until he smiled again, asleep at last, Upon his lashes still a trace of tears....
How like a child the world! who, in this night Of strife, beholds strange monsters threatening And with black fear, having so little light, Cries to its Father, God, for comforting.
And well for it, if, answering the call, The Father hear and soothe its dread asleep!-- How many though, whom thoughts and dreams appall, Must lie awake and in the darkness weep.
The Day brims high its ewer Of blue with starry light, And crowns as King that hewer Of clouds (which take their flight Across the sky) old Night.
And Tempest there, who houses Within them, like a cave, Lies down and dreams and drowses Upon the Earth's huge grave, With wandering wind and wave.
The storm moves on; and winging From out the east--a bird, The moon drifts, calmly bringing A message and a word Of peace, in Heaven it heard.
Of peace and times called golden, Whose beauty makes it glow With love, like that of olden, Which mortals used to know There in the long-ago.
One blossoming rose-tree, like a beautiful thought Nursed in a broken mind, that waits and schemes, Survives, though shattered, and about it caught, The strangling dodder streams.
Gaunt weeds: and here a bayonet or pouch, Rusty and rotting where men fought and slew: Bald, trampled paths that seem with fear to crouch, Feeling a bloody dew.
Here nothing that was beauty's once remains. War left the garden to its dead alone: And Life and Love, who toiled here, for their pains Have nothing once their own.
Death leans upon the battered door, at gaze-- The house is silent where there once was stir Of husbandry, that led laborious days, With Love for comforter.
Now in Love's place, Death, old and halt and blind, Gropes, searching everywhere for what may live.-- War left it empty as his vacant mind; It has no more to give.