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Y child is lying on my knees,

The signs of Heaven she reads : My face is all the Heaven she sees

Is all the Heaven she needs,

And she is well, yea, bathed in bliss,
If Heaven is in


faceBehind it all is tenderness,

And truthfulness and grace.

I mean her well so earnestly,

Unchanged in changing mood; My life would go without a sigh

To bring her something good.

I also am a child, and I

Am ignorant and weak;

gaze upon the starry sky,
And then I must not speak.

For all behind the starry sky,

Behind the world so broad, Behind men's hearts and souls, doth lie

The Infinite of God.

If true to her, though dark with doubt

I cannot choose but be,
Thou, who dost see all round about,

Art surely true to me.

If I am low and sinful, bring
More love where need is rife

; Thou knowest what an awful thing

It is to be a Life.

Hast Thou not wisdom to enwrap

My waywardness around, And hold me quietly on the lap

Of Love without a bound?

And so I sit in Thy wide space,

My child upon my knee ; She looketh up into my face, And I look up to Thee.


EEP in the warm vale the village is sleeping,

Sleeping the firs on the bleak rock above; Nought wakes, save grateful hearts, silently creeping Up to their Lord in the might of their love.

What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I bring

Thee, Odour, and light, and the magic of gold; Feet which must follow Thee, lips which must

sing Thee, Limbs which must ache for Thee 'ere they grow



What Thou hast given to me, Lord, here I render,
Life of mine own life, the fruit of my
Take him, yet leave him me, till I shall render
Count of the precious charge, kneeling above.

From the Saint's Tragedy-CHARLES KINGSLEY

A CHILD'S a plaything for an hour ; Its pretty

tricks we try For that or for a longer space

Then tire, and lay it by.

But I knew one that to itself

All seasons could control; That would have mock'd the sense of pain

Out of a grieved soul.

Thou straggler into loving arms,

Young climber up of knees, When I forget thy thousand ways Then life and all shall cease.


FONDLY the wise man said that foolishness

In a child's heart was bound, and said the rod Could perfect that which surelier one caress Lays, love-baptized, before the feet of God.

And fondly he, the passionate saint who steeped
His virgin soul in Carthaginian mire,
Found in the weanling babe that laughed and leaped
Glad from its mother's arm, hate, spite and ire.

They erred. The child is, was, and still shall be,
The world's deliverer ; in his heart the springs
Of our salvation ever rise, and we
Mount on his innocency as on wings.

I, at the least, who knew and ever grieve
One little lovely soul, must so believe.


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