HE passed along our village street; The fame of him had gone before And many ran on whispering feet To mock or wonder or appeal. I caught my child from where he lay And stood expectant at the door. Many the sick he healed that day, But mine he did not heal. HE paused before us where we stood And looked into my boy's blue eyes -- Those eyes of tortured babyhood Questioning life with hurt surprise. It would have taken but a word To make the future sweet and clear -- Many the prayers that day he heard, But mine he did not hear. YET this he did -- his head he bent And kissed my child upon the cheek. He turned upon me, as he went, Eyes that were wonderful with tears. Silent I shrank before the deeps Of mysteries too great to speak -- But oh, my patient son who creeps Along his crippled years! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EARTH'S IMMORTALITIES: FAME by ROBERT BROWNING BUDMOUTH DEARS by THOMAS HARDY THE HERITAGE by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL ONLY A PIN by ISAAC HINTON BROWN SONNET ON THE NUPTIALS OF THE MARQUIS ANTONIO CAVALLI by GEORGE GORDON BYRON TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 4. WHO SHALL COMMAND THE HEART (1) by EDWARD CARPENTER |