A CHICK’S CRY

At lone midnight, with only the light Of stars across my bed, And on my wakeful head, I prayed for sight, or note though slight, Of moving melody. ’Twas then I heard the call of a bird, A soft, pathetic cry; It seemed to ask: “Oh, why, My pleading word is not yet heard, And I forsaken be?” A motherless chick, and my heart grew quick; My youngest, sleeping, dreaming girl, With tender heart and eye like pearl, Had played love’s trick, when hale or sick, A devoted mother she. With night’s last wane, I heard life’s strain— A woodland warbler’s song. The child arose ere long With love so fain; I caught again Rich rhythm of amity. The chick’s cry ceased—’twas now a feast, And note of joy it spoke To the motherly master-stroke— Glory in the east for the very least, And smiled the Deity. On man’s wide sea there come to me Still deeper wails; oh, hark! The children cry—’tis dark! Ah, when shall we on earth decree Divinest ecstasy?