Toward Morning - a poem
Toward Morning
Sometimes when I wake up early in the morning before it is light, I hear my baby talking in his crib. If I rise upon my elbow very gently so that he will not see me, I can see him there in the dim light, dark eyes with his fat hands clasped together or patting one another. All the while he makes those tender, inarticulate sounds in his own language.
To whom is he speaking in the dark, toward morning? He is still so near Heaven, this little one - is he talking in the language of the angels to some visitor invisible to me, but seen by his pure eyes? Is he making a report of his day’s events, his own progress, or asking after the welfare of others he loves in the land he left so short a time ago?
Perhaps the angel who cared for him comes in that holy hour, to sit with and love him yet awhile...toward morning
- Author Unknown
Sometimes when I wake up early in the morning before it is light, I hear my baby talking in his crib. If I rise upon my elbow very gently so that he will not see me, I can see him there in the dim light, dark eyes with his fat hands clasped together or patting one another. All the while he makes those tender, inarticulate sounds in his own language.
To whom is he speaking in the dark, toward morning? He is still so near Heaven, this little one - is he talking in the language of the angels to some visitor invisible to me, but seen by his pure eyes? Is he making a report of his day’s events, his own progress, or asking after the welfare of others he loves in the land he left so short a time ago?
Perhaps the angel who cared for him comes in that holy hour, to sit with and love him yet awhile...toward morning
- Author Unknown
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