The Mournful Mother

Dost thou weep, mournful mother,

      For thy blind boy in grave?

That no more with each other,

      Sweet counsel ye can have?—

That he, left dark by nature,

      Can never more he led

By thee, maternal creature,

      Along smooth paths instead?

That thou canst no more show him

      The sunshine, by the heat;

The river's silver flowing,

      By murmurs at his feet?

The foliage, by its coolness;

      The roses, by their smell;

And all creation's fulness,

      By Love's invisible?

Weepest thou to behold not

      His meek blind eyes again,—

Closed doorways which were folded,

      And prayed against in vain—

And under which, sate smiling

      The child-mouth evermore,

As one who watcheth, wiling

      The time by, at a door?

And weepest thou to feel not

      His clinging hand on thine—

Which now, at dream-time, will not

      Its cold touch disentwine?

And weepest thou still ofter,

      Oh, never more to mark

His low soft words, made softer

      By speaking in the dark?

Weep on, thou mournful mother!

But since to him when living,

      Thou wert both sun and moon,

Look o'er his grave, surviving,

      From a high sphere alone

Sustain that exaltation—

      Expand that tender light;

And hold in mother-passion,

      Thy Blessed, in thy sight.

See how he went out straightway

      From the dark world he knew,—

No twilight in the gateway

      To mediate 'twixt the two,—

Into the sudden glory,

      Out of the dark he trod,

Departing from before thee

      At once to Light and God!—

For the first face, beholding

      The Christ's in its divine,—

For the first place, the golden

      And tideless hyaline;

With trees, at lasting summer,

      That rock to songful sound,

While angels, the new-comer,

      Wrap a still smile around!

Oh, in the blessed psalm now,

      His happy voice he tries,—

Spreading a thicker palm-bough,

      Than others, o'er his eyes,—

Yet still, in all the singing,

      Thinks haply of thy song

Which, in his life's first springing,

      Sang to him all night long,—

And wishes it beside him,

      With kissing lips that cool

And soft did overglide him,—

      To make the sweetness full.

Look up, O mournful mother;

      Thy blind boy walks in light!

Ye wait for one another,

      Before God's infinite!

But thou art now the darkest,

      Thou mother left below—

Thou, the sole blind,—thou markest,

      Content that it be so;—

Until ye two give meeting

      Where the great Heaven-gate is,

And he shall lead thy feet in,

      As once thou leddest his!

Wait on, thou mournful mother.