HER little dumb child, for whom hope was none
In any mind, she watched from sun to sun,
Until three years her mighty faith had run;
Then, in an agony of love, laid by
The bright head from her breast, and went to lie
’Neath cedarn shadows, and the wintry sky,
Not having, for her long desire and prayer,
One sign from those shut lips, so rosy-fair
It seemed all eloquence must nestle there.
That day, to her near grave, thro’ frost and sleet,
He, following from his toys on truant feet,
Cried: ‘Mother, mother!’ joyous and most sweet.
And as their souls ached in them at the word,
The father lifted his new-wakened bird
With one rapt tear, that now at last she heard!