Classic Poem

I

THIS woman, with the dear child-heart,
Ye mourn as dead, is — where and what?
With faith as artless as her Art,
I question not, —

But dare divine, and feel, and know
Her blessedness — as hath been writ
In allegory. — Even so
I fashion it: —

II

A stately figure, rapt and awed
In her new guise of Angelhood,
Still lingered, wistful — knowing God
Was very good. —

Her thought's fine whisper filled the pause;
And, listening, the Master smiled,
And lo! the stately angel was
— A little child.