Lest he miss other children, lo!
His angel is his playfellow.
A riotous angel two years old,
With wings of rose and curls of gold.
There on the nursery floor together
They play when it is rainy weather,
Building brick castles with much pain,
Only to knock them down again.
Two golden heads together look
An hour long o’er a picture-book,
Or, tired of being good and still,
They play at horses with good will.
And when the boy laughs you shall hear
Another laughter silver-clear,
Sweeter than music of the skies,
Or harps, or birds of Paradise.
Two golden heads one pillow press,
Two rosebuds shut for heaviness.
The wings of one are round the other
Lest chill befall his tender brother.
All day, with forethought mild and grave,
The little angel’s quick to save.
And still outruns with tender haste
The adventurous feet that go too fast.
From draughts, from fire, from cold and stings
Wraps him within his gauzy wings;
And knows his father’s pride, and shares
His happy mother’s tears and prayers.