Children

THE paths which lead us to God’s throne
Seem worn by children’s feet ;
So small, and yet so difficult,
Are ways by which we meet.

We cannot see His hidden plan,
Nor read life’s story through,
Yet ofttimes we despair, as if
The work were ours to do.

Entwinéd cords of love and pain
Lead the young children on ;
Why, then, should we forget to hope,
And think there’s nothing done !

We cannot know their childish hearts,
We cannot learn their grief;
Though we, too, were but children once,
And years gone by are brief.

Who saw, at night, the stealing tear
Drop on the folded sheet;
Or guessed what formless midnight shape
Had chilled those little feet ?

Who knew the hours of waking joy
In our green garden plot ?
Those hours among the hollyhocks,
Whose beauty fadeth not!

Days when the hidden steps of Spring
Were heard, not understood ;
When music from afar swept in,
Born of her dreamful mood.

Seasons when young Love hid his face
Through joyless, restless days !
The winter of the growing soul,
Whose summer still delays.

Glad thought to light the darksome path,—
A child’s grief is not long ;
Clouds but lead in the strong, bright day,
The morning mist, her song.