Page:Underwoods, Stevenson, 1887.djvu/80

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XXVI

THE SICK CHILD

Child. O mother, lay your hand on my brow!
O mother, mother, where am I now?
Why is the room so gaunt and great?
Why am I lying awake so late?
Mother. Fear not at all: the night is still.
Nothing is here that means you ill—
Nothing but lamps the whole town through,
And never a child awake but you.
Child. Mother, mother, speak low in my ear,
Some of the things are so great and near,
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