Classic Poem

Now thou art gone, my precious one, for ever past recall,
I know that of all treasured gifts I prized thee most of all.
I know it by this aching void, I try to fill in vain,
By ceaseless trouble, haunted nights, and lonely days of pain.
Christ said that in his Father's house, there many mansions were;
If so, the brightest — I must think — is where the babies are,
And oh, when I shall be allowed within it but to stand,
And pick my bright-eyed weeny one from out that angel band,
The moment that my yearning gaze rests on her face again,
The joy then mine must pay for these weary weeks of pain.
" NOT DEAD BUT SLEEPETH. "