The universal Father soothes
The death-bed of each bird;
"The whole creation groaneth," yet
These pure things of the sky,
Are they not nearer to the gates
Than mortals such as I?

Yet while I mused, it seemed some form,
Ere yet I was aware,
Bent o'er my pillow, dried my tears,
And turned to sing my prayer;
Some subtle presence unrevealed,
Seemed to repeat the words,
"Fear not, for you are dearer far,
Than many little birds."

I do not ask what seemed to speak;
Whether the angel blest,
Who hath been my appointed guard
In calm or wild unrest;
Or whether some sweet voice I love,
But hushed to me a while,
Came down on gentle mission sent,
To change for tears a smile.

It matters not; God knows faith's wings
Droop sometimes in the dust,
And hands grow weak and lose their hold
On Hope's firm anchor trust;
And so, while sending dew and rain,