Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/121

 With many a gold laburnum tress, Hang white blossom in warm June O'er lowlands, tender as a tune Of turtle-doves, o'er harebell-hued Fair corn, fair meadow-land, and wood. The trees win ampler foliage, height, But all the soul hath taken flight From the scene of our delight. 'Tis a warm night now of June; And in the twilight of the moon That glimmers on the nursery pane, Under the window where we wept, Under the window where he slept, Behold! a wild wee flower is fain To unclose soft eyes, though it be night, Revealing a meek visage white, A wild white flower, whose very bane Is garish day, who blossoms only In a twilight cool and lonely; Here, where with bitter tears I wept, Bitter tears for him who slept, Tears for him who seemed to wane, Lo! the little flower hath spoken, The frail white blossom hath a token For my faint spirit from her love; It is an olive leaf the Dove Brings for my solace from the wild, Telling the deeps have not devoured my child,