The Child

It was only the clinging touch Of a child’s hand in the street, But it made the whole day sweet; Caught, as he ran full-speed, In my own stretched out to his need, Caught, and saved from the fall, As I held, for the moment’s poise, In my circling arms the whole boy’s Delicate slightness, warmëd mould; Mine, for an instant mine, The sweetest thing the heart can divine, More precious than fame or gold, The crown of many joys, Lay in my breast, all mine. I was nothing to him; He neither looked up nor spoke; I never saw his eyes; He was gone ere my mind awoke From the action’s quick surprise With vision blurred and dim. You say I ask too much: It was only the clinging touch Of a child in a city street; It hath made the whole day sweet.