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!"

THE LITTLE DEAD CHILD: JOSEPHINE DASKAM BACON

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