I
This woman, with the dear child-heart,
Ye mourn as dead, is—where and what?
With faith as artless as her Art,
I question not,—
But dare divine, and feel, and know
Her blessedness—as hath been writ
In allegory.—Even so
I fashion it:—
II
A stately figure, rapt and awed
In her new guise of Angelhood,
Still lingered, wistful—knowing God
Was very good.—
Her thought’s fine whisper filled the pause;
And, listening, the Master smiled,
And lo! the stately angel was
—A little child.