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Poem	I knew a little, sickly child,The long, long summer’s day,When all the world was green and bright,Alone in bed to lay;There used to come a little doveBefore his window small,[Pg 011]And sing to him with her sweet voice,Out of the fir-tree tall.And when the sick child better grew,And he could creep along,Close to that window he would come,And listen to her song.He was so gentle in his speech,And quiet at his play,He would not, for the world, have made,That sweet bird fly away.There is a Holy Dove that singsTo every listening child,—That whispers to his little heartA song more sweet and mild.It is the Spirit of our GodThat speaks to him within;That leads him on to all things good,And holds him back from sin.And he must hear that “still, small voice,”Nor tempt it to depart,—The Spirit, great and wonderful,That whispers in his heart.He must be pure, and good, and true;Must strive, and watch, and pray;For unresisted sin, at last,May drive that Dove away.[Pg 012]
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