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Home  »  library  »  Song  »  Robert Buchanan (1841–1901)

C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.

Robert Buchanan (1841–1901)

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-crowned;

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.