A Child Ill

Oh, little body, do not die.

    The soul looks out through wide blue eyes

So questioningly into mine,

    That my tormented soul replies:

“Oh, little body, do not die.

    You hold the soul that talks to me

Although our conversation be

    As wordless as the windy sky.”

So looked my father at the last

    Right in my soul, before he died,

Though words we spoke went heedless past

    As London traffic-roar outside.

And now the same blue eyes I see

    Look through me from a little son,

So questioning, so searchingly

    That youthfulness and age are one.

My father looked at me and died

    Before my soul made full reply.

Lord, leave this other Light alight—

    Oh, little body, do not die.