Page:Poems for Children Sigourney 1836.pdf/19

 

So to the ark she fled, With weary, drooping head, To seek for rest; Christ is thy ark, my love, Thou art the timid dove,— Fly to his breast.

 

I had a little friend, And every day he crept In sadness to his brother's tomb, And laid him down and wept.

And when I ask'd him why He mourn'd so long and sore; He answer'd through his tears, "because    I did not love him more.

"Sometimes I was not kind,    And cross or coldly spake;" And then he turn'd away, and sobb'd    As though his heart would break. 