Poems (Ford)/The Little Chair

THE LITTLE CHAIR.

The house seems bright and cheerful
As any home can be;
I hear clear, ringing laughter,
Glad bursts of childish glee;
Why does the silent mother
A look of sadness wear?
Ah, in a shaded corner
She sees a little chair.

There sat her blue-eyed Willie,
One year ago to day—
Oh, with what earnest pleading
She prayed that he might stay;
For, though she knew God called him,
She wished not yet to spare
Her youngest, brightest darling
To fill an angel's chair.

His sweet young voice is silent,
She sees his smile no more,
Nor hears his tiny footsteps'
Light patter on the floor,
The dimpled hands no longer
Are lifted up in prayer,
Lisped in sweet, childish accents,
Beside his little chair.

Though other children gambol
All joyous at her side,
Her sad eye vainly seeketh
The little one that died;
Oh, bitterly she mourns him,
And oft, when none are there,
Her hot tears fall in silence
Upon his little chair.

Oh, there is many a household
Where joy and sorrow meet—
Homes where one link is wanting
The circle to complete,
And should you ask what shadow
Of sorrow resteth there,
Some loving hand will sadly
Point to an empty chair.

What heart is there that mourns not
Some loved one gone before,
To meet the waiting angels
Upon the spirit shore?
Since here there must be partings,
Oh, let it be our prayer
That in our home eternal
We'll mourn no empty chair.