Henry Wadsworth Longfellow — The Angel and the Child

An angel with a radiant face,        &nbsp Above a cradle bent to look, Seemed his own image there to trace,        &nbsp As in the waters of a brook. "Dear child! who me resemblest so,"        &nbsp It whispered, "come, O come with me! Happy together let us go,        &nbsp The earth unworthy is of thee! "Here none to perfect bliss attain;        &nbsp The soul in pleasure suffering lies; Joy hath an undertone of pain,        &nbsp And even the happiest hours their sighs. "Fear doth at every portal knock;        &nbsp Never a day serene and pure From the o'ershadowing tempest's shock        &nbsp Hath made the morrow's dawn secure. "What then, shall sorrows and shall fears        &nbsp Come to disturb so pure a brow? And with the bitterness of tears        &nbsp These eyes of azure troubled grow? "Ah no! into the fields of space,        &nbsp Away shalt thou escape with me; And Providence will grant thee grace        &nbsp Of all the days that were to be. "Let no one in thy dwelling cower,        &nbsp In sombre vestments draped and veiled; But let them welcome thy last hour,        &nbsp As thy first moments once they hailed. "Without a cloud be there each brow;        &nbsp There let the grave no shadow cast; When one is pure as thou art now,        &nbsp The fairest day is still the last." And waving wide his wings of white,        &nbsp The angel, at these words, had sped Towards the eternal realms of light!—        &nbsp Poor mother! see, thy son is dead!