The infant lies in blessed ease
Upon his mother's breast;
No storm, no dark, the baby sees
Invade his heaven of rest.
He nothing knows of change or death—
Her face his holy skies;
The air he breathes, his mother's breath;
His stars, his mother's eyes!
Yet half the soft winds wandering there
Are sighs that come of fears;
The dew slow falling through that air—
It is the dew of tears;
And ah, my child, thy heavenly home
Hath storms as well as dew;
Black clouds fill sometimes all its dome,
And quench the starry blue!
"My smile would win no smile again,
If baby saw the things
That ache across his mother's brain
The while to him she sings!
Thy faith in me is faith in vain—
I am not what I seem:
O dreary day, O cruel pain,
That wakes thee from thy dream!"
Nay, pity not his dreams so fair,
Fear thou no waking grief;
Oh, safer he than though thou were
Good as his vague belief!
There is a heaven that heaven above
Whereon he gazes now;
A truer love than in thy kiss;
A better friend than thou!
The Father's arms fold like a nest
Both thee and him about;
His face looks down, a heaven of rest,
Where comes no dark, no doubt.
Its mists are clouds of stars that move
On, on, with progress rife;
Its winds, the goings of his love;
Its dew, the dew of life.
We for our children seek thy heart,
For them we lift our eyes:
Lord, should their faith in us depart,
Let faith in thee arise.
When childhood's visions them forsake,
To women grown and men,
Back to thy heart their hearts oh take,
And bid them dream again.