Nocturne
Still the dark night – a penitential calm
In expiation of the rude day’s din –
And all seems peaceable within
The silent house. As fragrant as a balm
A low breeze lulls the trees.
Over the soundless surface of the lawn
A noiseless wraith – as quiet as a sleep –
Floats softly to the shadowed sweep
That darkly cloaks the place, as if there drawn
By impulse from within.
Inside, a sick child tosses as it sleeps.
The soothing Spirit hovers near the bed;
Then stoops to gently touch the head
That turns thereon. A wistful smile slow-creeps
Across the parted lips.
Still the dark night; and still the child who passed
So long in torment on a bed of pain.
Now is that patient Soul again
To sweet oblivion released at last:
A mother mourns her babe.
