Children When Young Are Sometimes Lost
People when young are sometimes lost—
Like small bright birds in winter air,
Their songs once clear as silver frost
Grow faint for want of someone’s care.
There is a spark in every child,
A trembling star the heart once knew;
But hands that should have kept it mild
Blew cold winds through it as they grew.
And when the sorrow could not speak,
When pain had never learned my name,
The young heart, frightened and grown bleak,
Turned restless—yet was not to blame.
For how could children understand
The storms that gathered in their chest?
They only reached a trembling hand
Toward someone strong enough to rest.
They acted out their wordless plea,
They broke the silence any way—
Hoping that someone there might see
A soul that could not find its way.
But iron bars were shut instead,
And stone replaced a needed guide;
Still half a child, with hope near dead,
They locked the wounded spark inside.
Ah, had there been a gentler art,
A listening ear, a patient voice,
The hidden music of the heart
Might still have risen to rejoice.
For in those years, so long ago,
When brighter futures might have grown,
There was no saving hand to know
The fragile light not yet full-blown.
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