At lone midnight, with only the light
Of stars across my bed,
And on my wakeful head,
I prayed for sight, or note though slight,
Of moving melody.
’Twas then I heard the call of a bird,
A soft, pathetic cry;
It seemed to ask: “Oh, why,
My pleading word is not yet heard,
And I forsaken be?”
A motherless chick, and my heart grew quick;
My youngest, sleeping, dreaming girl,
With tender heart and eye like pearl,
Had played love’s trick, when hale or sick,
A devoted mother she.
With night’s last wane, I heard life’s strain—
A woodland warbler’s song.
The child arose ere long
With love so fain; I caught again
Rich rhythm of amity.
The chick’s cry ceased—’twas now a feast,
And note of joy it spoke
To the motherly master-stroke—
Glory in the east for the very least,
And smiled the Deity.
On man’s wide sea there come to me
Still deeper wails; oh, hark!
The children cry—’tis dark!
Ah, when shall we on earth decree
Divinest ecstasy?