Edmund Clarence Stedman, ed. (1833–1908). An American Anthology, 1787–1900. 1900.
By Emma HuntingtonNason1186 A Childs Question
“W
Close-held within my own,
What foul breath in the air is rife?
What voice malign, unknown,
Hath dared this whisper faint and dread,
“What is—what is it to be dead?”
They had no right to say
This to my child—I know we cried
When Robin “went away;”
But this strange thing we never said,
That what we loved so could be dead.
Health throbs in every vein;
Thou hast not dreamed of earth’s alloy,
Nor stepped where guilt has lain;
O sweet young life! O baby breath!
What hast thou now to do with death?
Anew the childish prayer,
Lest, “If I die before I wake,”
Should rouse a thought or care.
Mother of Christ, was this a sin—
To watch where death might enter in?
Relentless cries: “Go hence!”
I think of Eden’s sin and shame;
I gaze—on innocence!
And still the curse? Must I arise
And lead my own from Paradise!
Loom up beyond the gate;
I see his pure soul tossed and whirled—
My child! I pray thee wait!
Ask me not what the Angel saith;
My soul this day hath tasted death!