Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/60

 To this poor earth of ours! So moaning In fierce despair, amid the groaning Of those evil blasts I heard A still small voice, as of a bird. Nay, bird had ne'er so sweet a voice, Nor ever bird may so rejoice; No spring that babbles in the summer, Nor flower-enamoured fairy hummer! What is it, Lord? can it be human? Song of child, or song of woman? Some loving Ariel doth toy In self-abandonment of joy! Like, yet unlike our vanished angel! I know I deem it an evangel From my darling, hovering In the very storm, to sing Near my yearning soul, to tell What seems the blasphemy of hell Is love, to him who loveth well!

… In bluest air the melody On silver wings appears to fly; And lo! in live germander blue A threefold flower-cluster flew, Child-seraphim, arrayed in white, Fair with dewy eyes of light; As when two swallows on the wing,