Those Tiny Fingers.

A poem by John Hartley

She has gone for ever from earth away,
Yet those tiny fingers haunt me still;
In the silent night, when the moons pale ray,
Silvers the leaves on the window sill.
Just between sleeping and waking I lie,
Makebelieve feeling their velvet touch,
Darling! My darling! Oh, why should you die!
Leaving me lonely, who loved so much?

Those tiny fingers that used to stray
Over my face which is wrinkled now;
Those little white hands - how they used to play,
With the wanton curls round my once fair brow.
Thy soft blue eyes and thy dimpled cheeks,
I seem to see now as I saw them then;
And a whispering voice to my sad heart speaks, -
'Thou shalt meet her again,' - but when? oh, when?

Deep in the grave was the coffin laid,
And buried with it was my purest love;
Oh, how I'd hoped, and watched, and prayed,
That Death would pass by and spare my dove,
Was it in mercy God took thee hence?
Was it because I had worshipped thee so?
Was my devotion to thee an offence?
I was thy mother, - and God must know.

If it were sinful, my tears have atoned;
At last I can murmur, "Thy will be done,"
Sweet little cherub, to me but loaned,
Now safe at home, far beyond the sun.
Soon the dark river I too shall cross,
And hopefully climb up that golden stair,
And all this world's riches will be but dross,
If those tiny fingers beckon me there.

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