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THE CLAY-CHILD.
77
THE CLAY-CHILD.
HEN the footsteps of the New On the Old were pressing,
One who knew my life to be
Aching for a blessing
Gave the Clay-child, sleeping here,
To my fond caressing.
Clipping first the folded wings
Crossed its round throat under,
Lest, grown weary of my care,
It might choose to wander
Back into the purple light
Of the far heaven yonder.
Crossed its round throat under,
Lest, grown weary of my care,
It might choose to wander
Back into the purple light
Of the far heaven yonder.
Saying, "In the nurture true
Of your soul-love rear it;
Let no rude or evil thing
Ever linger near it;
Keep as now its perfectness
Pure, in face and spirit."
Of your soul-love rear it;
Let no rude or evil thing
Ever linger near it;
Keep as now its perfectness
Pure, in face and spirit."
