Query any poem you want.

A little soul scarce fledged for earth

Takes wing with heaven again for goal

Even while we hailed as fresh from birth

  A little soul.

Our thoughts ring sad as bells that toll,

Not knowing beyond this blind world's girth

What things are writ in heaven's full scroll.

Our fruitfulness is there but dearth,

And all things held in time's control

Seem there, perchance, ill dreams, not worth

  A little soul.

The little feet that never trod

Earth, never strayed in field or street,

What hand leads upward back to God

  The little feet?

A rose in June's most honied heat,

When life makes keen the kindling sod,

Was not so soft and warm and sweet.

Their pilgrimage's period

A few swift moons have seen complete

Since mother's hands first clasped and shod

  The little feet.

The little hands that never sought

Earth's prizes, worthless all as sands,

What gift has death, God's servant, brought

  The little hands?

We ask:  but love's self silent stands,

Love, that lends eyes and wings to thought

To search where death's dim heaven expands.

Ere this, perchance, though love know nought,

Flowers fill them, grown in lovelier lands,

Where hands of guiding angels caught

  The little hands.

The little eyes that never knew

Light other than of dawning skies,

What new life now lights up anew

  The little eyes?

Who knows but on their sleep may rise

Such light as never heaven let through

To lighten earth from Paradise?

No storm, we know, may change the blue

Soft heaven that haply death descries

No tears, like these in ours, bedew

  The little eyes.

Was life so strange, so sad the sky,

  So strait the wide world's range,

He would not stay to wonder why

  Was life so strange?

Was earth's fair house a joyless grange

  Beside that house on high

Whence Time that bore him failed to estrange?

That here at once his soul put by

  All gifts of time and change,

And left us heavier hearts to sigh

  'Was life so strange?'

Angel by name love called him, seeing so fair

  The sweet small frame;

Meet to be called, if ever man's child were,

  Angel by name.

Rose-bright and warm from heaven's own heart he came,

  And might not bear

The cloud that covers earth's wan face with shame.

His little light of life was all too rare

  And soft a flame:

Heaven yearned for him till angels hailed him there

  Angel by name.

The song that smiled upon his birthday here

Weeps on the grave that holds him undefiled

Whose loss makes bitterer than a soundless tear

  The song that smiled.

His name crowned once the mightiest ever styled

Sovereign of arts, and angel:  fate and fear

Knew then their master, and were reconciled.

But we saw born beneath some tenderer sphere

Michael, an angel and a little child,

Whose loss bows down to weep upon his bier

  The song that smiled.