A poem by Nora Pembroke

I have not wept for Edgar, as a mother
Weeps for the tender lamb she lays to rest;
And yet it cannot be that any other
Baby like him shall lie upon my breast;
For he was with us but a passing guest,
A birdling that belonged not to the nest.

Looking upon his large dark eyes so tender,
Filled with the solemn light of Paradise,
I knew that word would soon come to surrender,
My babe, not mine, but native to the skies;
As the sweet lark that ever upward flies,
He would be taken from my longing eyes.

For from the first he looked to be earth-weary,
And clung to me with no desire to play;
He never laughed and crowed with spirit cheery
Like my earth babies; but from day to day
Seemed ever yearning for the far-away,
And well I knew he could not with me stay

The angels whispered things I knew not of,
My babe had visions of a far-off land,
I knew it, that he yearned for higher love,
And reached to touch another unseen hand,
That drew him from my little household band,
They wailed for him of whom they were so fond

And when he closed his eyes and fell asleep,
Loosening his baby grasp away from mine,
Turning from me that had no power to keep,
The glory of a placidness divine
Beamed on his face, I took it for a sign,
And bowed my head to say, Thy will is mine.

I weep for him in silence of the night,
I see him where the holy angels are,
His radiant eyes have lost their mournful light
And beam with happy glory like a star,
I weep with mournful joy to think that, where
The Master is, my little babe is there.

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