Poem by William Cosmo Monkhouse

We Are Children

CHILDREN indeed are we—children that wait  
Within a wondrous dwelling, while on high  
Stretch the sad vapors and the voiceless sky;  
The house is fair, yet all is desolate  
Because our Father comes not; clouds of fate
Sadden above us—shivering we espy  
The passing rain, the cloud before the gate,  
And cry to one another, “He is nigh!”  
At early morning, with a shining Face,  
He left us innocent and lily-crown’d;
And now this late—night cometh on apace—  
We hold each other’s hands and look around,  
Frighted at our own shades! Heaven send us grace!  
When He returns, all will be sleeping sound.

1. On a Young Poetess’s Grave
2. De Libris
3. Twin-Growth
4. The Churchyard
5. The Wake of Tim O'Hara

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