Could I know but the path aright,
How fast and how fast my feet would run
Through the way o' Death to-night!"

Saying, "Oh and alack, for thy empty place
And the ache in my heart to hide!"
The little live son has touched her face,
But she thrust his hands aside.

The mother hath laid her down and wept
In the midnight's chill and gloom;
In the hour ere dawn while the mother slept
The ghost came in the room.

And the little live son hath called his name
Or ever he passed the door,
"Oh, brother, brother, 'tis well ye came,
For our mother's grief is sore!

"Oh, brother, brother, she weeps for thee
As a rain that beats all day,
But me she pushes from off her knee
And turneth her eyes away."

And the little dead son he spake again,
"My brother, the dead have grace
Though they lay them low from the sight of men
With a white cloth on their face.

"Oh, brother, the dead have gifts of love,