Poem by Dora Greenwell

When the Night and Morning Meet

In the dark and narrow street,
 Into a world of woe,
Where the tread of many feet
 Went trampling to and fro,
A child was born—speak low!
 When the night and morning meet.

Full seventy summers back
 Was this; so long ago,
The feet that wore the track
 Are lying straight and low,—
Yet hath there been no lack
 Of passers to and fro.

Within the narrow street
 This childhood ever played;
Beyond the narrow street
 This manhood never strayed;
This age sat still and prayed
 Anear the trampling feet.

The tread of ceaseless feet
 Flowed through his life, unstirred
By waters' fall, or fleet
 Wind music, or the bird
Of morn,—these sounds are sweet,
 But they were still unheard.

Within the narrow street
 I stood beside a bed—
 I held a dying head
When the night and morning meet;
And every word was sweet,
 Though few the words we said.

And as we talked, dawn drew
 To day—the world was fair
In fields afar, I knew;
 Yet spoke not to him there
Of how the grasses grew.
 Besprent with dew-drops rare.

We spoke not of the sun,
 Nor of this green earth fair;
This soul, whose day was done,
 Had never claimed its share
 In these, and yet its rare
Rich heritage had won.

From the dark and narrow street
 Into a world of love
A child was born,—speak low,
Speak reverent, for we know
 Not how they speak above,
When the night and morning meet.

1. Seeking
2. God's Singer
3. Faint Yet Pursuing
4. To Christina Rossetti
5. A Valentine (One said to me)

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