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And I answer； with eyes uplifted；
〃Yes； dear！ they are all at home。〃
Margaret Sangster ＇1838…1919＇
THE MORNING…GLORY
We wreathed about our darling's head
The morning…glory bright；
Her little face looked out beneath；
So full of life and light；
So lit as with a sunrise；
That we could only say；
〃She is the morning…glory true；
And her poor types are they。〃
So always from that happy time
We called her by their name；
And very fitting did it seem …
For； sure as morning came；
Behind her cradle bars she smiled
To catch the first faint ray；
As from the trellis smiles the flower
And opens to the day。
But not so beautiful they rear
Their airy cups of blue；
As turned her sweet eyes to the light；
Brimmed with sleep's tender dew；
And not so close their tendrils fine
Round their supports are thrown；
As those dear arms whose outstretched plea
Clasped all hearts to her own。
We used to think how she had come；
Even as comes the flower；
The last and perfect added gift
To crown Love's morning hour；
And how in her was imaged forth
The love we could not say；
As on the little dewdrops round
Shines back the heart of day。
We never could have thought； O God；
That she must wither up；
Almost before a day was flown；
Like the morning…glory's cup；
We never thought to see her droop
Her fair and noble head；
Till she lay stretched before our eyes；
Wilted； and cold； and dead！
The morning…glory's blossoming
Will soon be coming round …
We see the rows of heart…shaped leaves
Upspringing from the ground；
The tender things the winter killed
Renew again their birth；
But the glory of our morning
Has passed away from earth。
O Earth！ in vain our aching eyes
Stretch over thy green plain！
Too harsh thy dews； too gross thine air
Her spirit to sustain；
But up in groves of Paradise
Full surely we shall see
Our morning…glory beautiful
Twine round our dear Lord's knee。
Maria White Lowell ＇1821…1855＇
SHE CAME AND WENT
As a twig trembles； which a bird
Lights on to sing； then leaves unbent；
So is my memory thrilled and stirred； …
I only know she came and went。
As clasps some lake； by gusts unriven；
The blue dome's measureless content；
So my soul held that moment's heaven； …
I only know she came and went。
As； at one bound； our swift spring heaps
The orchards full of bloom and scent；
So clove her May my wintry sleeps； …
I only know she came and went。
An angel stood and met my gaze；
Through the low doorway of my tent；
The tent is struck； the vision stays； …
I only know she came and went。
Oh； when the room grows slowly dim；
And life's last oil is nearly spent；
One gush of light these eyes will brim；
Only to think she came and went。
James Russell Lowell ＇1819…1891＇
THE FIRST SNOW…FALL
The snow had begun in the gloaming；
And busily all the night
Had been heaping field and highway
With a silence deep and white。
Every pine and fir and hemlock
Wore ermine too dear for an earl；
And the poorest twig on the elm…tree
Was ridged inch deep with pearl。
From sheds new…roofed with Carrara
Came Chanticleer's muffled crow；
The stiff rails softened to swan's…down；
And still fluttered down the snow。
I stood and watched by the window
The noiseless work of the sky；
And the sudden flurries of snow…birds；
Like brown leaves whirling by。
I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn
Where a little headstone stood；
How the flakes were folding it gently；
As did robins the babes in the wood。
Up spoke our own little Mabel；
Saying； 〃Father； who makes it snow？〃
And I told of the good All…father
Who cares for us here below。
Again I looked at the snow…fall；
And thought of the leaden sky
That arched o'er our first great sorrow；
When that mound was heaped so high。
I remembered the gradual patience
That fell from that cloud like snow；
Flake by flake； healing and hiding
The scar that renewed our woe。
And again to the child I whispered；
〃The snow that husheth all；
Darling； the merciful Father
Alone can make it fall〃
Then； with eyes that saw not； I kissed her；
And she； kissing back； could not know
That my kiss was given to her sister；
Folded close under deepening snow。
James Russell Lowell ＇1819…1891＇
〃WE ARE SEVEN〃
A simple Child；
That lightly draws its breath；
And feels its life in every limb；
What should it know of death？
I met a little cottage Girl：
She was eight years old； she said：
Her hair was thick with many a curl
That clustered round her head。
She had a rustic； woodland air；
And she was wildly clad：
Her eyes were fair； and very fair；
… Her beauty made me glad。
〃Sisters and brothers； little Maid；
How many may you be？〃
〃How many？ Seven in all；〃 she said；
And wondering looked at me。
〃And where are they？ I pray you tell。〃
She answered； 〃Seven are we；
And two of us at Conway dwell；
And two are gone to sea；
〃Two of us in the church…yard lie；
My sister and my brother；
And； in the church…yard cottage； I
Dwell near them with my mother。〃
〃You say that two at Conway dwell；
And two are gone to sea；
Yet ye are seven … I pray you tell；
Sweet Maid； how this may be。〃
Then did the little Maid reply；
〃Seven boys and girls are we；
Two of us in the church…yard lie
Beneath the church…yard tree。〃
〃You run about； my little Maid；
Your limbs they are alive；
If two are in the church…yard laid；
Then ye are only five。〃
〃Their graves are green； they may be seen；〃
The little Maid replied：
〃Twelve steps or more from my mother's door；
And they are side by side。
〃My stockings there I often knit；
My kerchief there I hem；
And there upon the ground I sit；
And sing a song to them。
〃And often after sunset； Sir；
When it is light and fair；
I take my little porringer；
And eat my supper there。
〃The first that died was sister Jane；
In bed she moaning lay；
Till God released her of her pain；
And then she went away。
〃So in the church…yard she was laid；
And； when the grass was dry；
Together round her grave we played；
My brother John and I。
〃And when the ground was white with snow；
And I could run and slide；
My brother John was forced to go；
And he lies by her side。〃
〃How many are you； then；〃 said I；
〃If they two are in heaven？〃
Quick was the little Maid's reply；
〃O Master！ we are seven。〃
〃But they are dead； those two are dead！
Their spirits are in heaven！〃
'Twas throwing words away； for still
The little Maid would have her will；
And said； 〃Nay； we are seven！〃
William Wordsworth ＇1770…1850＇
MY CHILD
I cannot make him dead！
His fair sunshiny head
Is ever bounding round my study chair；
Yet when my eyes； now dim
With tears； I turn to him；
The vision vanis