I. <br /> <br />I NEVER lay me down to sleep at night <br />But in my heart I sing that little song: <br />The angels hear it as, a pitying throng, <br />They touch my burning lids with fingers bright <br />As moonbeams, pale, impalpable, and light: <br />And when my daily pious tasks are done, <br />And all my patient prayers said one by one, <br />God hears it. Seems it sinful in His sight <br />That round my slow burnt-offering of quenched will <br />One quivering human sigh creeps wind-like still? <br />That when my orisons celestial fail <br />Rises one note of natural human wail? <br />Dear lord, spouse, hero, martyr, saint! erelong, <br />I trust, God will forgive my singing that poor song. <br /> <br /> <br />II. <br /> <br />A YEAR ago I bade my little son <br />Bear upon pilgrimage a heavy load <br />Of alms; he cried, half-fainting on the road, <br />'Mother, O mother, would the day were done!' <br />Him I reproved with tears, and said, 'Go on! <br />Nor pause nor murmur till thy task be o'er.'-- <br />Would not God say to me the same, and more? <br />I will not sing that song. Thou, dearest one, <br />Husband--no, brother!--stretch thy steadfast hand <br />And let mine grasp it. Now, I also stand, <br />My woman weakness nerved to strength like thine; <br />We'll quaff life's aloe-cup as if 't were wine <br />Each to the other; journeying on apart, <br />Till at heaven's golden doors we two leap heart to heart.<br /><br />Dinah Maria Mulock Craik<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/saint-elizabeth-of-bohemia/
