The Poet's Love For The Children

Kindly and warm and tender,      He nestled each childish palm      So close in his own that his touch was a prayer      And his speech a blessed psalm.      He has turned from the marvelous pages      Of many an alien tome -      Haply come down from Olivet,      Or out from the gates of Rome -      Set sail o'er the seas between him      And each little beckoning hand      That fluttered about in the meadows      And groves of his native land, -      Fluttered and flashed on his vision      As, in the glimmering light      Of the orchard-lands of childhood,      The blossoms of pink and white.      And there have been sobs in his bosom,      As out on the shores he stept,      And many a little welcomer      Has wondered why he wept. -      That was because, O children,      Ye might not always be      The same that the Savior's arms were wound      About, in Galilee.