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The Only Child

by
 Lest he miss other children, lo! 
His angel is his playfellow.
A riotous angel two years old, With wings of rose and curls of gold.
There on the nursery floor together They play when it is rainy weather, Building brick castles with much pain, Only to knock them down again.
Two golden heads together look An hour long o'er a picture-book, Or, tired of being good and still, They play at horses with good will.
And when the boy laughs you shall hear Another laughter silver-clear, Sweeter than music of the skies, Or harps, or birds of Paradise.
Two golden heads one pillow press, Two rosebuds shut for heaviness.
The wings of one are round the other Lest chill befall his tender brother.
All day, with forethought mild and grave, The little angel's quick to save.
And still outruns with tender haste The adventurous feet that go too fast.
From draughts, from fire, from cold and stings Wraps him within his gauzy wings; And knows his father's pride, and shares His happy mother's tears and prayers.

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