IX.

A solemn thing it is to me To look upon a babe that sleeps Wearing in its spirit-deeps The undeveloped mystery Of our Adam's taint and woe, Which, when they developed be, Will not let it slumber so; Lying new in life beneath The shadow of the coming death, With that soft, low, quiet breath, As if it felt the sun; Knowing all things by their blooms, Not their roots, yea, sun and sky Only by the warmth that comes Out of each, earth only by The pleasant hues that o'er it run, And human love by drops of sweet White nourishment still hanging round The little mouth so slumber-bound: All which broken sentiency And conclusion incomplete, Will gather and unite and climb To an immortality Good or evil, each sublime, Through life and death to life again. O little lids, now folded fast, Must ye learn to drop at last Our large and burning tears? O warm quick body, must thou lie, When the time comes round to die, Still from all the whirl of years, Bare of all the joy and pain? O small frail being, wilt thou stand At God's right hand, Lifting up those sleeping eyes Dilated by great destinies, To an endless waking? thrones and seraphim. Through the long ranks of their solemnities, Sunning thee with calm looks of Heaven's surprise, But thine alone on Him? Or else, self-willed, to tread the Godless place, (God keep thy will!) feel thine own energies Cold, strong, objectless, like a dead man's clasp, The sleepless deathless life within thee grasp,-- While myriad faces, like one changeless face, With woe _not love's_, shall glass thee everywhere And overcome thee with thine own despair?