Henry Blackwell Wiggs  



TRANSITION

By Elizabeth Aspinwall Craig Wiggs
Upon the death of her two-year-old son

Henry Blackwell Wiggs Jr (1906-1908)

How shall we make memorial - a poem, song or clay?
How shall we seek embodiment, or semblance, while we may,
Of morning's sweet transcendent light, the child we loved today,
Ere this mad dream of present pain become the mellowed yesterday?

When Love would summon for the form of graces yet too poignant near;
When echoes sweet of voice or glance from Paradise come faint and clear;
Or spirit exaltation fail, and mother hunger seek its own,
What star employ - to type our boy - from memory's radiant crown?

In holy church our candles twain on Faith's high altar shine;
The tender women's voices make a melody divine.
The white-robed priest from Holy Writ this consolation: "Thine
Own mystic purpose is complete, oh, Father! 'tis Transition.

Nothing lost, no whit of life's triumphant, joyous crown of glory.
Two short years - oh, words insensate, yield magic to a perfect story!
Without the gate of Eden shut, a woman dreamed, and fragrant lay
Upon her breast a shining babe, to waken visions of the primal day.

So we, I and his father, lost to measure, grew in height amain,
And ever climbing, saw the Gardener's hand lay low, cut, peruse the vain
Exultant plant that gloried in a bud so rare of promise bright.
An angel envious earth must set our darling in the Fields of light.

But low! Behold miracle of growth. In tears and heart-break finding strength
The bruised and broken stem is myriad blossomed, hundred hued , at length
Errands of mercy, service of faith, fellowship with all who weep; love,
The spirit's fruits - deathless fragrance! Till the heavenly vision dawn above.


Mrs. Henry B. Wiggs