Poetry Archives

Hurrying out to the gateway
  Go two little pattering feet;
Eagerly out through the palings
  Peer two eyes bright and sweet.

A footstep as eager is answering
  The sweet eyes that patiently wait
And papa is kissing, and blessing
  The baby that opens the gate.

And every day all the long Summer,
  At noontime and evening late,
The little one’s watching for papa—
  Waiting to open the gate.

And now the bright Summer is ended,
  And Autumn’s gay mantle unrolled;
The maple leaves wooing the breezes
  Are gorgeous in crimson and gold.

At noonday the face at the gateway
  Is flushed with a feverish glow,
At night the bright head on the pillow
  Is tossing in pain to and fro.

The father kneels down in his anguish,
  And stifles the sobs with groan;
He knows that his idol is going—
  Going out in the midnight alone.

He buries his face in the pillow,
  Close, close, to the fast failing breath;
A little arm clasps his neck closely,
  A voice growing husky in death

Says pleadingly, half in a whisper:
  “Please, darling papa, don’t cry;
I know Birdie’s going to Heaven—
  I heard doctor say he will die;

“But I’ll ask God for one of the windows
  The pretty star-eyes look out through,
And when you come up with the angels
  I’ll sure be the first to see you.

“And maybe I’ll find my dear mamma;
  And you’ll come up, too, by-and-by,
And Birdie will watch for you, papa,
  And open the gate of the sky.”

The little hand falls from his shoulder
  All nerveless, the blue eyes dilate,
A shuddering sigh, then the baby
  Is waiting to open the gate.