Fondly the wise man said that foolishness
In a child’s heart was bound, and said the rod
Could perfect that which surelier one caress
Lays, love-baptized, before the feet of God.
And fondly he, the passionate saint who steeped
His virgin soul in Carthaginian mire,
Found in the weanling babe that laughed and leaped,
Glad from its mother’s arm, hate, spite and ire.
They erred. The child is, was, and still shall be
The world’s deliverer; in his heart the springs
Of our salvation ever rise, and we
Mount on his innocency as on wings.
I, at the least, who knew and ever grieve
One little lovely soul, must so believe.