A Child’s Question

“What is it to be dead?” O Life,
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?”

Who told you that the song-bird died?
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.

Give me your hands, my only boy!
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?

I even framed for thy dear sake
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?

Too late! The Angel of the Flame
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!

I see the wide, the awful world
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!