To a Child During Sickness

Leigh Hunt (1784–1859)

SLEEP breathes at last from out thee,

My little patient boy;

And balmy rest about thee

Smooths off the day’s annoy.

I sit me down, and think

Of all thy winning ways;

Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink,

That I had less to praise.

Thy sidelong pillowed meekness;

Thy thanks to all that aid;

Thy heart, in pain and weakness,

Of fancied faults afraid;

The little trembling hand

That wipes thy quiet tears,—

These, these are things that may demand

Dread memories for years.

Sorrows I ’ve had, severe ones,

I will not think of now;

And calmly, midst my dear ones,

Have wasted with dry brow;

But when thy fingers press

And pat my stooping head,

I cannot bear the gentleness,—

The tears are in their bed.

Ah, first-born of thy mother,

When life and hope were new;

Kind playmate of thy brother,

Thy sister, father too;

My light, where’er I go;

My bird, when prison-bound;

My hand-in-hand companion—No,

My prayers shall hold thee round.

To say, “He has departed”—

“His voice”—“his face”—is gone,

To feel impatient-hearted,

Yet feel we must bear on,—

Ah, I could not endure

To whisper of such woe,

Unless I felt this sleep insure

That it will not be so.

Yes, still he ’s fixed, and sleeping!

This silence too the while,—

Its very hush and creeping

Seem whispering us a smile;

Something divine and dim

Seems going by one’s ear,

Like parting wings of cherubim,

Who say, “We ’ve finished here.”

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