Poetry Archives

A ring on the door bell,
  Some one at the door,
Mute asking admittance
  Where never before
A stranger in midnight,
  In silence and stealth,
Sought access to gain
  In a mansion of wealth.
Into the gaslight
  A package is borne;
Quickly from round it
  The wrappings are torn.
What is it? a baby!
  What seek you to-night,
So rosy and smiling,
  Nor in fear, nor in fright?

Ah! little intruder,
  What is it you wear
So close to your breast?
  Sure but hand in despair
Could have written the message
  Unconscious you bear,
And “loved” and “God blessed” you
  While leaving you there.
Let’s see the story
  ’Tis telling for you;
How brief and pathetic;
  But can it be true?
A mother heart brokenly
  Praying in grief
From hand of a stranger
  Her baby’s relief.
“He’s helpless and homeless,
  But stainless as snow;
O, take him and keep him—
  My poor little Joe.”

That’s all there is of it,
  If false or if true;
Yet long enough seems it,
  And sad enough, too.
No love-welcomed greeted
  The sweet baby face,
In the life that gave his life
  There was not a place.
No place for the baby,
  There’s none for him here,
No heart that may give him
  A smile or a tear.
Off to the refuge,
  For such, he must go,
He’s only a foundling—
  Poor little Joe.

Deserted, forsaken,
  Thrust out in the strife,
Adrift on the pitiless
  Ocean of life.
What will become of him,
  Who may decide
If good or if evil
  His life shall betide.
No tender caresses
  Ever to know,
Nor guidance, nor blessing—
  Poor little Joe.