All beautiful tales, I trust, are true.
But here is a grave in the moss,
And there is the sky. And the buds are blue
And a Butterfly blows across.
Yes, here is the grave and there is the sky:
To the one or the other we go.
And between them wavers the butterfly,
Like a soul that does not know.
Somewhere? Nowhere? Too-golden head,
And lips that I miss and miss,
You would tell me the secret of the dead-
Could I find you with a kiss!
Come here, I say, little child of mine,
Come with your bloom and your breath.
If he should believe in the life divine,
I will not believe in death!
“Where is your brother?” I question low,
And wait for his wise reply.
Does he say- “Down there in the Grave”? Ah, no;
He says, with a laugh, “In the sky!”
Piatt, S. (1877). Child’s Faith. Scribner’s Monthly, Vol XIV, 247