Альберт Лейтон (Albert Laighton)

Edith

You came to our hearts, little child,
When the sere leaves were falling;
And the skies gave no welcome to thee,
For the tempest was bitter and wild,
And we heard 'mid the tumult loud,
And the roar of the sullen cloud,
Like a voice in its helplessness calling,
The storm-driven sea.

Watch, Angel of Peace, by the bed
Where our darling reposes,—
For she came on the saddest of morns,
When the bloom of the Summer was dead,
And the winds and the waves were at strife.
Guide her feet in the pathway of Life,
And spare, while you give her the roses.
The pain of the thorns.

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