SHE will be looking at all the bright shops in the town,
Some like the sunrise, and some like the sun going down:
—“Such lights,” she says, “are in Heaven. Oh, that I might stare
Right in through the door into Heaven!—my child being there.”
She being so long a great sinner—ill-spoken—unwise—
Softly she goes now, and looking at God with both eyes;
And she will say at the midnight—her heart lying bare—
“Surely I have part of Heaven?—my child being there.”
Loneliness hangs on her dress—it is now the long worn:
On the shoes that are broken—the hat that has fallen forlorn:
She says: “Would God see me, I wonder now? if I should stare
Right in through the door into Heaven—my child being there.”
She will be looking at women the young and the strong,
And the frocks of the little ones laughing and dancing along:
“’Tis hard that they have all the riches!” she says in despair:
“I helped in the making of Heaven—my child being there.”
Poor though her body be, still it is goaded of Love:
—This that can hasten the tiger, and moan with the dove:
This that can make God a shadow. She says: “I will dare!
I will look for a moment in Heaven!—my Child being there.”
