Classic Poem

Something short in the making, —
Something lost on the way,
As the little Soul was taking
Its path to the break of Day!

Only his mood or passion,
But it twitched an atom back;
And she, for her gods of fashion,
Filched from the pilgrim's pack.

The Father did not mean it,
The Mother did not know,
No human eye had seen it, —
But the little Soul needed it so!

Through the street there passed a cripple,
Maimed from before its birth;
On the strange face gleamed a ripple,
Like a half-dawn on the earth.

It passed, — and it awed the city,
As one not alive nor dead:
Eyes looked and brimmed with pity, —
" He is not all there," they said.

Not all! for part is behind it,
Lying dropt on the way:
That part — could two but find it,
How welcome the end of Day!