POETRY.
THE SICK CHILD
HE for whom the world was made
Cannot lift his heavy head, All its pretty curls puffed out, - Btirnt with fevers, parched with drought.
He, the tyrant, whimsical,
With the round world for his ball,
In a dreadful patience lies, Old sinoe yesterday and wise.
Like a martyr on the rack Smiles, his soft lips burnt to black, While the fever still devours His small body, sweet as flowers.
Dreadful patience like a sword Stabs his mother's heart, dear Lord; Make him naughty, wild, and gay, As he was but yesterday.
Little services he pays With his kisses and his praise, While his eyes ask pardon still That he's troublesome and ill.
He lies smiling with a fire In his cheeks blown high and higher, By the wind of fever fanned. Lord, his kisses on my hand !
Give me back my boy, I pray, Turbulent, of yesterday. Not this angel, like a sword In his mother's heart, dear Lord !
KATHARINE TYNAN.
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