The Morning Mist

A mist from the channel stole up the shore,And crept o'er the sands to a cottage-door—Through the door, half-opened, it entered in.A woman, ragged, haggard, and wild,Bent a tear-stained face on her sleeping child,Fondling its fingers pallid and thin.But lo! before her, the morning mistStooped softly down with its lips, and kissedThe babe in the cradle sleeping;Then wrapped the child on its wreathfed arm,And melted away in the sunlight warm;Whilst the sun dried the mother's weeping.