A Sick Mother to her Blind Child

O MY love-laden
Own little maiden,
Though it is night to thee,
Yet is it light to me.
Sweetly appealing,
Movest thou feeling
All the way nigh to me,
Me who can see.
I may not fly to thee,
Only reply to thee.
Asking of me.
" Pray, mother, teach me
How I may reach thee ! "
Only come merrily :
Feel the way cheerily !
A little more prayerful
Faltering careful
Surely will bring to me,
Lead thee to rest :
Then shalt thou cling to me,
And I will sing to thee,
Laid on my breast !