'I want my child,' the mother said, as through
The deep sweet air of purple-breathing morn
She rose mid clouds of most celestial hue,
By the soft strength of angels' wings upborne.
Then he who bore her to her heavenly rest
Drew back the hand that hid her weeping eyes,
And said, 'I cannot alter the request
Of him whose glory lights the earth and skies.
For ere I came, and, as I paused again,
To hear His omnipresent words, He said,
'Take thou the root, but let the bud remain,
To perfect into blossom in its stead.'
And so I bear thee, that in our sweet land
You may be one of our immortal kind,
With not one task but to reach forth thy hand
And guide the footsteps of thy child behind.'
He ceased, and winging, reach'd those realms on high,
Whose lustre we half see through stars below,
And all the light that fills our earthly sky
Is but a shadow to its mighty glow.
Now whether that the mother in this light
Stood yearning for her treasure in our hands,
Or whether God saw fitting in His might
To reunite again the broken bands
We know not; but when night had come at last,
And wore to clasp the first embrace of day,
An angel enter'd, though the door was fast,
And all unseen took what we held away.
One took the mother from all earthly claim,
From out the bounds of life and all its harms;
But still I think 'twas God Himself that came,
And took the child and laid it in her arms.