My little boy, with smooth, fair cheeks,
And dreamy, large, brown eyes,
Not often, little wisehead, speaks,
But hearing, weighs and tries.
“God is not only in the sky,”
His sister said one day—
Not older much, but she would cry
Like Wisdom in the way—
“He’s in this room.” His dreamy, clear,
Large eyes look round for God:
In vain they search, in vain they peer;
His wits are all abroad!
“He is not here, mamma? No, no;
I do not see him at all!
He’s not the shadows, is he?” So
His doubtful accents fall—
Fall on my heart, no babble mere!
They rouse both love and shame:
But for earth’s loneliness and fear,
I might be saying the same!
Nay, sometimes, ere the morning break
And home the shadows flee,
In my dim room even yet I take
Those shadows, Lord, for thee!