And your mother smoothed the pillow, and her sleeping treasures numbered,
  Whispering fondly—­“He is dreaming”—­as you turned upon your bed—­
And your father stooped to kiss you, happy dreamer, as you slumbered,
     With his hand upon your head!

Did he know the true deep meaning of his blessing?  No! he never
  Heard afar the summons uttered—­“Come up hither”—­Never knew
How the awful Angel faces kept his sleeping boy for ever,
     And for ever in their view.

Awful Faces, unimpassioned, silent Presences were by us,
  Shrouding wings—­majestic beings—­hidden by this earthly veil—­
Such as we have called on, saying, “Praise the Lord, O Ananias,
     Azarias and Misael!”

But we saw not, and who knoweth, what the missioned Spirits taught him,
  To that one small bed drawn nearer, when we left him to their will? 
While he slumbered, who can answer for what dreams they may have brought
        him,
     When at midnight all was still?

Father!  Mother! must you leave him on his bed, but not to slumber? 
  Are the small hands meekly folded on his breast, but not to pray? 
When you count your children over, must you tell a different number,
     Since that happier yesterday?

Father!  Mother! weep if need be, since this is a “time” for weeping,
  Comfort comes not for the calling, grief is never argued down—­
Coldly sounds the admonition, “Why lament? in better keeping
     Rests the child than in your own.”

“Truth indeed! but, oh! compassion!  Have you sought to scan my sorrow?”
  (Mother, you shall meekly ponder, list’ning to that common tale)
“Does your heart repeat its echo, or by fellow-feeling borrow
     Even a tone that might avail?

“Might avail to steal it from me, by its deep heart-warm affection? 
  Might perceive by strength of loving how the fond words to combine? 
Surely no!  I will be silent, in your soul is no reflection
     Of the care that burdens mine!”

When the winter twilight gathers, Father, and your thoughts shall wander,
  Sitting lonely you shall blend him with your listless reveries,
Half forgetful what division holds the form whereon you ponder
     From its place upon your knees—­

With a start of recollection, with a half-reproachful wonder,
  Of itself the heart shall question, “Art Thou then no longer here? 
Is it so, my little Henry?  Are we set so far asunder
    Who were wont to be so near?”

While the fire-light dimly flickers, and the lengthened shades are meeting,
  To itself the heart shall answer, “He shall come to me no more: 
I shall never hear his footsteps nor the child’s sweet voice entreating
    For admission at my door.”

But upon your fair, fair forehead, no regrets nor griefs are dwelling,
  Neither sorrow nor disquiet do the peaceful features know;
Nor that look, whose wistful beauty seemed their sad hearts to be telling,
    “Daylight breaketh, let me go!”