Classic Poem

This is the house; the shutters
Are closed as ne'er before,
And that is crape which flutters
Beside the open door.
And there, within the garden
Her baby boy sits piling
A heap of gathered pebbles.
Look, friend, the babe is smiling —
Oh, motherless child!

Nay, call him not; hereafter
His grief with years will grow.
Check not his infant laughter;
He is too young to know.
Too young, or smiles he wisely,
Feeling a gentle spirit,
Whom our dim eyes can see not,
Is at his side or near it?
Oh, motherless child!

Come, friend, our kindly weeping
Can bring them no relief;
I would not view her sleeping,
Nor see her loved one's grief.
I fear the scene would haunt me
In all my future straying.
The white form in the parlor,
The little boy a-playing —
Oh, motherless child!

But why is death intruding
Upon us with such fear?
Is not the Christ-love brooding
Above, and watching near?
My soul, too weak and simple
To cope with doubt and error,
Hast found thyself forsaken?
Dost cry in sudden terror,
Oh, motherless child?