A child was singing at his play—
I heard the song, and paused to hear;
His mother moaning, groaning lay,
And, lo! a spectre stood anear!
The child shook sunlight from his hair,
And carolled gayly all day long—
Aye, with that spectre gloating there,
The innocent made mirth and song!
How like to harvest fruit wert thou,
O sorrow, in that dismal room—
God ladeth not the tender bough
Save with the joy of bud and bloom!