C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Robert Buchanan (1841–1901)
We Are Children
C
Within a wondrous dwelling, while on high
Stretch the sad vapors and the voiceless sky.
The house is fair, yet all is desolate
Because our Father comes not; clouds of fate
Sadden above us—shivering we espy
The passing rain, the cloud before the gate,
And cry to one another, “He is nigh!”
At early morning, with a shining Face,
He left us innocent and lily-crowned;
And now this late night cometh on apace;—
We hold each other’s hands and look around,
Frighted at our own shades! Heaven send us grace!
When He returns, all will be sleeping sound.