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THE CLAY-CHILD.
So I took it to my head
With a mother's yearning,
Loving it with heart and eyes,
Asking no returning,—
Loving it with many tears,
Yet no answer earning.
With a mother's yearning,
Loving it with heart and eyes,
Asking no returning,—
Loving it with many tears,
Yet no answer earning.
Born of Peace, for which my soul
Pineth, all ungifted,
Never are thy drooping lids
O my Clay-child, lifted,—
Never is the mystic veil
Which divides us rifted.
Pineth, all ungifted,
Never are thy drooping lids
O my Clay-child, lifted,—
Never is the mystic veil
Which divides us rifted.
Wherefore, though my prayerful knee
Never may be bended,
Thou shalt be my silent prayer,
Prayer with patience blended.
Through thy lips I ask thy peace,
Perfect, heaven-descended!
Never may be bended,
Thou shalt be my silent prayer,
Prayer with patience blended.
Through thy lips I ask thy peace,
Perfect, heaven-descended!
