The Glance

Dearest one, daughter! at glance of your brow-shaded eye,
Fixed gravely in all its young scrutiny dark on my own,
Lone seemed my soul as this earth was itself 'neath the sky,
When at word of creation the trumps of the angels were blown.

They rang to the verge of the universe, solemn and deep,
Clanging untellable joy to the heavens above,
And, at core of that clangour, in silence profounder than sleep,
Adam and Eve lay adream in their Eden of love.

But you, in your bird-eyed wonder, gazed steadily on,
Knowing naught of the tempest so stirred. I stooped down my head,
And, shutting my eyes to a prayer whereof words there are none,
Could but clasp your cold hand in my own and was dumb as the dead.
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