Calling the Dead

MY little child, so sweet a voice might wake
So sweet a sleeper for so sweet a sake.
Calling your buried brother back to you,
You laugh and listen — till I listen too!
. . . Why does he listen? It may be to hear
Sounds too divine to reach my troubled ear.
Why does he laugh? It may be be can see
The face that only tears can hide from me.
Poor baby faith — so foolish or so wise!
The name I shape out of forlornest cries
He speaks as with a bird’s or blossom’s breath. . . .
How fair the knowledge is that knows not Death !
Ah, fools and blind, — through all the piteous years
Searchers of stars and graves,—how many seers,
Calling the dead and seeking for a sign,
Have laughed and listened like this child of mine?
Mrs. S. M. B. Piatt.