Was now a path no more; yet had his brain
Been clear as on the morn, his step as firm,
The father might have found his homeward way.
But oft the earth seemed reeling 'neath his feet,
And once he fell, then nerved himself anew
To struggle with the storm.

"How long the way!
Dear father, are we almost home at last?"
Through teeth that chattered came the words half-formed,
And drops of dew stole from his anxious eyes
And turned to pearly ice-drops where they fell.
And then the father took the patient boy
Within his arms; he hugged him to his breast
And tried with steady gaze to pierce the gloom
If he might catch a glimpse of friendly lights,
Or haply of the lamp that burned for him
In his own cottage, fed by one who watched,
And wept, and prayed, and turned the cottage door
Upon its frosty hinges, till her fair cheek
Grew purple with the cold; he thought of this,
And anguish and remorse smote heavily.
But deeper grew the night; and hours that seemed
Like years to that distracted father passed.
Nearer and nearer to his aching breast
He held the child--for hope grew faint within;
Yet with that precious burden at his heart
He could not quite despair. "If I have sinned,
If I am seen in Heaven's all-searching light
Black and polluted, yet my child is pure,