Classic Poem

There was a glory in my house,
And it is fled;
There was a baby at my heart,
And it is dead.

And when I sit and think of him,
I am so sad,
That half it seems that never more
Can I be glad.

If you had known this baby mine,
He was so sweet
You would have gone a journey just
To kiss his feet.

He could not walk a single step,
Nor speak a word;
But then he was as blithe and gay
As any bird

That ever sat on orchard-bough,
And trilled its song,
Until the listener fancied it
As sweet and strong.

As if from lips of angels he
Had heard it flow;
Such angels as thy hand could paint,
Angelico!

You cannot think how many things
He learned to know
Before the swift, swift angel came,
And bade him go;

So that my neighbors said of him,
He was so wise
That he was never meant for earth,
But for the skies.

But I would not believe a word
Of what they said;
Nor will I, even now, although
My boy is dead.

For God would be most wicked, if,
When all the earth
Is in the travail of a new
And heavenly birth,

As often as a little Christ is found
With human breath,
He, like another Herod, should resolve
Upon its death.

But should you ask me how it is
That yours can stay,
Though mine must spread his little wings
And fly away,

I could but say, that God, who made
This heart of mine,
Must have intended that its love
Should be the sign

Of His own love; and that if He
Can think it right
To turn my joy to sorrow, and
My day to night,

I cannot doubt that He will turn,
In other ways,
My winter darkness to the light
Of summer days.

I know that God gives nothing to
Us for a day;
That what He gives He never cares
To take away.

And when He comes and seems to make
Our glory less,
It is that, bye-and-bye, we may
The more confess

That He has made it brighter than
It was before, —
A glory shining on and on
For evermore.

And when I sit and think of this,
I am so glad,
That half it seems that never more
Can I be sad.