A Child Asleep

                        How he sleepeth! having drunken

                              Weary childhood's mandragore,

                        From his pretty eyes have sunken

                              Pleasures, to make room for more—

Sleeping near the withered nosegay, which he pulled the day before.

                        Nosegays! leave them for the waking!

                              Throw them earthward where they grew.

                        Dim are such, beside the breaking

                              Amaranths he looks unto—

Folded eyes see brighter colours than the open ever do.

                        Heaven-flowers, rayed by shadows golden

                              From the palms they sprang beneath,

                        Now perhaps divinely holden,

                              Swing against him in a wreath—

We may think so from the quickening of his bloom and of his breath.

                        Vision unto vision calleth,

                              While the young child dreameth on.

                        Fair, O dreamer, thee befalleth

                              With the glory thou hast won!

Darker wert thou in the garden, yestermorn, by summer-sun.

                        We should see the spirits ringing

                              Round thee,—were the clouds away!

                        'Tis the child-heart draws them, singing

                              In the silent-seeming clay—

Singing?—Stars that seem the mutest, go in music all the way.

                        As the moths around a taper,

                              As the bees around a rose,

                        As in sunset, many a vapour,

                              So the spirits group and close

Round about a holy childhood, as if drinking its repose.

                        Shapes of brightness overlean thee,

                              With their diadems of youth

                        Striking on thy ringlets sheenly,—

                              While thou smilest,... not in sooth

Thy smile... but the overfair one, dropt from some ætherial mouth.

                        Haply it is angels' duty,

                              During slumber, shade by shade

                        To fine down this childish beauty

                              To the thing it must be made,

Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade.

                        Softly, softly! make no noises!

                              Now he lieth dead and dumb—

                        Now he hears the angels' voices

                              Folding silence in the room—

Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they come.

                        Speak not! he is consecrated—

                              Breathe no breath across his eyes.

                        Lifted up and separated

                              On the hand of God he lies,

In a sweetness beyond touching,—held in cloistral sanctities.

                        Could ye bless him—father—mother?

                              Bless the dimple in his cheek?

                        Dare ye look at one another,

                              And the benediction speak?

Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too weak?

                        He is harmless—ye are sinful,—

                              Ye are troubled—he, at ease!

                        From his slumber, virtue winful

                              Floweth outward with increase—

Dare not bless him! but be blessed by his peace—and go in peace.