I. M.--MARGARET EMMA HENLEY (1888-1894)
When you wake in your crib, You, an inch of experience -
Vaulted about With the wonder of darkness;
Wailing and striving To reach from your feebleness Something you feel Will be good to and cherish you, Something you know And can rest upon blindly:
O, then a hand (Your mother's, your mother's!)
By the fall of its fingers All knowledge, all power to you, Out of the dreary, Discouraging strangenesses Comes to and masters you, Takes you, and lovingly Woos you and soothes you Back, as you cling to it, Back to some comforting Corner of sleep.
So you wake in your bed, Having lived, having loved;
But the shadows are there, And the world and its kingdoms Incredibly faded;
And you group through the Terror Above you and under For the light, for the warmth, The assurance of life;
But the blasts are ice-born, And your heart is nigh burst With the weight of the gloom And the stress of your strangled And desperate endeavour:
Sudden a hand -
Mother, O Mother! -
God at His best to you, Out of the roaring, Impossible silences, Falls on and urges you, Mightily, tenderly, Forth, as you clutch at it, Forth to the infinite Peace of the Grave.
October 1891
