My heart is darkened and unclean.  Ah me,
To be a man, and yet to tremble so! 
Strange, strange!”
                   And there was sitting at his feet—­
He could not see it plainly—­at his feet
A very little child.  And, while the blood
Drave to his heart, he set his eye on it,
Gazing, and, lo! the loveliness from heaven
Took clearer form and color.  He beheld
The strange, wise sweetness of a dimpled mouth,—­
The deep serene of eyes at home with bliss,
And perfect in possession.  So it spoke,
“My master!” but he answered not a word;
And it went on:  “I had a name, a name. 
He knew my name; but here they can forget.” 
The curate answered:  “Nay, I know thee well. 
I love thee.  Wherefore art thou come?” It said,
“They sent me;” and he faltered, “Fold thy hand,
O most dear little one! for on it gleams
A gem that is so bright I cannot look
Thereon.”  It said, “When I did leave this world,
That was a tear.  But that was long ago;
For I have lived among the happy folk,
You wot of, ages, ages.”  Then said he,
“Do they forget us, while beneath the palms
They take their infinite leisure?” And, with eyes
That seemed to muse upon him, looking up
In peace the little child made answer, “Nay;”
And murmured, in the language that he loved,
“How is it that his hair is not yet white;
For I and all the others have been long
Waiting for him to come.” 
                          “And was it long?”
The curate answered, pondering.  “Time being done,
Shall life indeed expand, and give the sense,
In our to-come, of infinite extension?”
Then said the child, “In heaven we children talk
Of the great matters, and our lips are wise;
But here I can but talk with thee in words
That here I knew.”  And therewithal, arisen,
It said, “I pray you take me in your arms.” 
Then, being afraid but willing, so he did;
And partly drew about the radiant child,
For better covering its dread purity,
The foldings of his gown.  And he beheld
Its beauty, and the tremulous woven light
That hung upon its hair; withal, the robe,
“Whiter than fuller of this world can white,”
That clothed its immortality.  And so
The trembling came again, and he was dumb,
Repenting his uncleanness:  and he lift
His eyes, and all the holy place was full
Of living things; and some were faint and dim,
As if they bore an intermittent life,
Waxing and waning; and they had no form,
But drifted on like slowly trailed clouds,
Or moving spots of darkness, with an eye
Apiece.  And some, in guise of evil birds,
Came by in troops, and stretched their naked necks,
And some were men-like, but their heads hung down;
And he said, “O my God! let me find grace
Not to behold their faces, for I know
They must be wicked and right terrible.” 
But while he prayed, lo! whispers; and there moved
Two shadows on the wall.  He could not see
The forms of them that cast them:  he could see
Only the shadows as of two that sat
Upon the floor, where, clad in women’s weeds,
They lisped together.  And he shuddered much: 
There was a rustling near him, and he feared
Lest they should touch him, and he feel their touch.