The Dying Child to its Blind Father

The Dying Child to its Blind Father

There's a whisper round my soul, father,

And it tells me I must go,

While my heart throbs back the answer,

In beating so faint and low.

I am sorry to leave you, father,

I know you will miss me so,

And the world, for you, will gather

Such a deeper shade of woe.

You will miss me, dearest father,

When the violets wake from sleep,

And when timidly from the hedges

The earliest snow-drops peep.

I shall not be here to gather

The flowers by stream and dell—

The bright and beautiful flowers,

Dear father, you love so well.

You will miss my voice, dear father,

From every earthly tone—

All the songs that cheered your darkness—

And you'll be so sad and lone.

I can scarcely rejoice, dear father,

In hope of the brighter land,

When I know you'll pine in sadness.

And miss my guiding hand.

You are weeping, dearest father!

Your sobs are shaking my soul;

But we'll meet again, where the shadow

And night from your eyes shall roll.

And then you will see me, father,

With vision undimmed and clear;

Your eyes will sparkle with rapture—

You know there's no blindness there.

Frances Ellen Watkins (Harper)

1:36, p. 1

3.24.1860