"ALL THE LITTLE SIGHING SOULS"

When the heron's in the high wood and the last long furrow's sown With the herded cloud before her and her sea-sweet raiment blown Comes Mary, Mary Shepherdess, a-seeking for her own. Saint James he calls the righteous folk, Saint John he calls the kind, Saint Peter seeks the valiant men all to loose or bind, But Mary seeks the little souls that are so hard to find. All the little sighing souls born of dust's despair, They who fed on bitter bread when the world was bare, Frighted of the glory gates and the starry stair. All about the windy down, housing in the ling, Underneath the alder-bough linnet-light they cling, Frighted of the shining house where the martyrs sing. Crying in the ivy-bloom, fingering at the pane, Grieving in the hollow dark, lone along the lane, Mary, Mary Shepherdess gathers them again. And O the wandering women know, in workhouse and in shed, They dream on Mary Shepherdess with doves about her head, And pleasant posies in her hand, and sorrow comforted. Saying: there's my little lass, faring fine and free, There's the little lad I laid by the holly tree, Dreaming: There's my nameless bairn laughing at her knee. When the bracken-harvest's gathered and the frost is on the loam When the dream goes out in silence and the ebb runs out in foam, Mary, Mary Shepherdess, she leads the lost lambs home. If I had a little maid to turn my tears away, If I had a little lad to lead me when I'm gray, All to Mary Shepherdess they'd fold their hands and pray.

The stars began to peep Gone was the bitter day, She heard the milky ewes Bleat to their lambs astray. Her heart cried for her lamb Lapped cold in the churchyard sod, She could not think on the happy children At play with the Lamb of God. She heard the calling ewes And the lambs answer alas! She heard her heart's blood drip in the night, As the ewes' milk on the grass. Her tears that burnt like fire So bitter and slow ran down She could not think on the new-washed children Playing by Mary's gown. Oh, who is this comes in Over her threshold stone? And why is the old dog wild with joy Who all day long made moan? This fair little radiant ghost, Her one little son of seven, New 'scaped from the band of merry children In the nurseries of Heaven. He was all clad in white Without a speck or stain; His curls had a ring of light, That rose and fell again. "Now come with me, my own mother, And you shall have great ease, For you shall see the lost children Gathered at Mary's knees." Oh, lightly sprang she up Nor waked her sleeping man, And hand in hand with the little ghost Through the dark night she ran. She is gone swift as a fawn, As a bird homes to its nest, She has seen them lie, the sleepy children, 'Twixt Mary's arm and breast. At morning she came back; Her eyes were strange to see. She will not fear the long journey, However long it be. As she goes in and out She sings unto hersel'; For she has seen the mother's children And knows that it is well.

The dead son's mother sat and wept And her live son plucked at her gown, "Oh, mother, long is the watch we've kept!" But she beat the small hands down. The little live son he clung to her knee— And frightened his eyes and dim— "Have ye never, my mother, a word for me?" But she turned her face from him, Saying, "Oh and alack, mine own dead son, Could I know but the path aright, How fast and how fast my feet would run Through the way o' Death to-night!" Saying, "Oh and alack, for thy empty place And the ache in my heart to hide!" The little live son has touched her face, But she thrust his hands aside. The mother hath laid her down and wept In the midnight's chill and gloom; In the hour ere dawn while the mother slept The ghost came in the room. And the little live son hath called his name Or ever he passed the door, "Oh, brother, brother, 'tis well ye came, For our mother's grief is sore! "Oh, brother, brother, she weeps for thee As a rain that beats all day, But me she pushes from off her knee And turneth her eyes away." And the little dead son he spake again, "My brother, the dead have grace Though they lay them low from the sight of men With a white cloth on their face. "Oh, brother, the dead have gifts of love, Though lonely and low they lie, By my mother's love do I speak and move And may not wholly die." The little live son he sighed apart, "Oh, brother, ye live," quoth he, "In my mother's grief and my mother's heart And my mother's memory. "And vain for thee is my mother's cry," The little live son hath said, "For ye are loved and ye may not die— It is only I who am dead!"

When all but her were sleeping fast, And the night was nearly fled, The little dead child came up the stair And stood by his mother's bed. "Ah, God!" she cried, "the nights are three, And yet I have not slept!" The little dead child he sat him down, And sank his head and wept. "And is it thou, my little dead child, Come in from out the storm? Ah, lie thou back against my heart, And I will keep thee warm!" That is long ago, mother, Long and long ago! Shall I grow warm who lay three nights Beneath the winter snow? "Hast thou not heard the old nurse weep? She sings to us no more; And thy brothers leave the broken toys And whisper in the door." That is far away, mother, Far and far away! Above my head the stone is white. My hands forget to play. "What wilt thou then, my little dead child, Since here thou may'st not lie? Ah, me! that snow should be thy sheet, And winds thy lullaby!" Down within my grave, mother, I heard, I know not how, "Go up to God, thou little child, Go up and meet him now!" That is far to fare, mother, Far and far to fare! I come for thee to carry me The way from here to there. "Oh, hold thy peace, my little dead child. My heart will break in me! Thy way to God thou must go alone, I may not carry thee!" The cock crew out the early dawn Ere she could stay her moan; She heard the cry of a little child, Upon his way alone.

They say the night has fallen chill— But I know naught of mist or rain, Only of two small hands that still Beat on the darkness all in vain. They say the wind blows high and wild Down the long valleys to the sea; But I can only hear the child, Who weeps in darkness, wanting me. Beyond the footfalls in the street, Above the voices of the bay, I hear the sound of little feet, Two little stumbling feet astray. Oh, loud the autumn wind makes moan, The desolate wind about my door, And a little child goes all alone Who never was alone before.

I heard her crying in the night,— So long, so long I lay awake, Watching the moonlight ebb and break Against the sill like waves of light. I tried to close my eyes nor heed And lie quite still—but oh, again The little voice of fright and pain Sobbed in the darkness of her need. Strange shadows led me down the stair; Creaked as I went the hollow floor; I drew the bolt and flung the door Wide, wide, and softly called her there. Ah me, as happy mothers call Through the tender twilights to the gay, Glad truant making holiday Too long before the evenfall. The garden odors drifted through, The scent of earth and box and rose, And then, as silently as those, A little wistful child I knew. So small, so frightened and so cold, Ah, close, so close I gathered her Within my arms, she might not stir, And crooned and kissed her in their hold. As might a happy mother, when, Aghast for some quaint, trifling thing, One runs to her for comforting, And smiles within her arms again. All night upon my heart she lay, All night I held her warm and close, Until the morning wind arose And called across the world for day. The garden odors drifted through The open door; as still as they She passed into the awful day, A little, wistful child I knew. Think you for this God's smile may dim (His are so many, many dead) Seeing that I but comforted A child—and sent her back to Him!

Three days she wandered forth from me, Then sought me as of old. "I did not know how dark 'twould be," She sobbed, "nor yet how cold." And it is chill for me to fare Who have not long been dead. If thou wouldst give away thy cloak I might go comforted." I would have soothed her on my breast But that she needs must go. The dead must journey without rest Whether they will or no. But I had kept for love of her The cloak she wore, the shoes, And every day I touched the things She had been wont to use. All night the dead must hurry on, They may not ever sleep. And so I gave away her cloak That I was fain to keep. The second time she sought me out Her eyes were full of need. "If thou wouldst give away my shoes Perchance I would not bleed." I cried to her aloud, "My child, They are all I have to keep, To lay my hand upon and touch At night before I sleep. "The earth shall keep the body I bore, And Heaven thy soul. I may not choose. Let be—I ask a little thing, That I should keep thy shoes. "But I will give away my own. Lord, Lord, wilt Thou not see? Let Thou her road to Paradise This way be eased by me." All night alone by brier and stone I ran that road unshod, So I might know instead of her The pains that lead to God. When next she came for a brief space She tarried at my side, So happy was she in that place, So glad that she had died. "The last night that I roamed," she said, "Some one had gone before. I followed where those feet had led, And found it rough no more. "And then I came to a good place, So kind, so dear are they I may not come again," and so She smiled and went away. Dear Christ, Who died to save us all, Who trod the ways so cold and wild, The love of Mary in thy heart Did let me ease my child. She may not leave the place of bliss, I may not touch her hands and hair, But every night I touch and kiss The shoes she used to wear.

O listen for her step when the fire burns hollow When the low fire whispers and the white ash sinks, When all about the chamber shadows troop and follow As drowsier yet the hearth's red watchlight blinks. While bare black night through empty casements staring Waits to storm the wainscot till the fire lies dead, Fast along the snowbound waste little feet are faring— Hush and listen—listen—but never turn your head. Leave the door upon the latch—she could never reach it— You would hear her crying, crying there till break of day, Out on the cold moor 'mid the snows that bleach it, Weeping as once in the long years past away. Lean deeper in the settle-corner lest she find you— Find and grow fearsome, too afraid to stay: Do you hear the hinge of the oaken press behind you? There all her toys were kept, there she used to play. Do you hear the light, light foot, the faint sweet laughter Happy stir and murmur of a child that plays: Slowly the darkness creeps up from floor to rafter, Slowly the fallen snow covers all the ways. Falls as it once fell on a tide past over, Golden the hearth glowed then, bright the windows shone; And still, she comes through the sullen drifts above her Home to the cold hearth though all the lights are gone. Far or near no one knew—none would now remember Where she wandered no one knew—none will ever know; Somewhere Spring must give her flowers, somewhere white December Calls her from the moorland to her playthings through the snow.

They are my laddie's hounds That rin the wood at brak o' day. Wha is it taks them hence? Can ony say Wha is it taks my laddie's hounds At brak o' day? They cleek aff thegither, And then fa' back, wi' room atween For ane to walk; sae aften, I hae seen The baith cleek aff thegither Wi' ane atween! And when toward the pines Up yonder lane they loup alang I see ae laddie brent and strang, I see ae laddie loup alang Toward the pines. I follow them in mind Ilk time; right weel I ken the way,— They thrid the wood, an' speel the staney brae An' skir the field; I follow them, I ken the way. They daddle at the creek, Whaur down fra aff the reachin'-logs I stoup, wi' my dear laddie, and the dogs, An' drink o' springs that spait the creek Maist to the logs. He's but a bairn, atho' He hunts the mountain's lonely bree, His doggies' ears abune their brows wi' glee He ties; he's but a bairn, atho' He hunts the bree. Fu' length they a' stretch out Upon ae bink that green trees hap In shade. He whusslits saft; the beagles nap Wi' een half shut, a stretchin' out Whaur green trees hap. And noo he fades awa' Frae 'tween the twa—into the blue. My sight gats blind; gude Lord, it isna true That he has gane for aye awa Into the blue! They are my laddie's hounds That mak the hill at fa' o' day Wi' dowie heads hung laigh; can ony say Wha is it hunts my laddie's hounds Till fa' o day?

The boys who used to come and go In the grey kindly house are flown. They have taken the way the young feet know; Not alone, not alone! Thronged is the road the young feet go. Yet in the quiet evening hour What comes, oh, lighter than a bird? Touches her cheek, soft as a flower. What moved, what stirred? What was the joyous whisper heard? What flitted in the corridor Like a boy's shape so dear and slight? What was the laughter ran before? Delicate, light, Like harps the wind plays out of sight. The boys who used to go and come In the grey house are come again; Of the grey house and firelit room They are fain, they are fain: They have come home from the night and rain.