Chapter I

If, where thou walkest, dear, we too could walk,
Close in the footsteps of our little saint,
Now, on this earth ; and hear the angels talk,
Living this very life (without life’s taint);

If, where thou goest, we could also go,
Calm in the heavenly places, waiting not
For death’s enfranchisement to overthrow
The world in us, with every flaw and blot;

If thy small hands, that late were clasped in pain,
Could clasp us every day to God and thee,
Drawing us childwards, heavenwards again
By their mere whiteness, everlastingly—

Then, humbled and consoled by so much grace,
We might less hungrily desire thy face.