In the dark and narrow street,
Into a world of woe,
Where the tread of many feet
Went trampling to and fro,
A child was horn, (speak low,)
When thy night and morning meet.

Full seventy summers back
Was this—so long ago—
The feet that wore the track
Are lying straight and low
Yet hath there been no lack
Of passers to and fro.

Within the narrow street
This childhood ever play'd;
Beyond the narrow street
This manhood never stray'd;
This age sat still and pray'd
A-near the trampling feet.

The tread of ceaseless feet
Flow'd through his life, unstirr'd
By waters' fall, or fleet
Wind music, or the bird
Of morn, these sounds are sweet,
But they were still unheard.

Within the narrow street
I stood beside a bed—
I held a dying head
When the night and morning meet;
And every word was sweet,
Though few the words we said.

And as we talk'd, dawn drew
To day—the world was fair
In fields afar I knew;
Yet spoke not to him there
Of how the grasses grew,
Besprent with dew-drops rare.

We spoke not of the sun,
Nor of this green earth fair.
This soul, whose day was done,
Had never claim'd its share
In these, and yet its rare
Rich heritage had won.

From the dark and narrow street,
Into a world of love,
A child was born—speak low,
Speak reverent; for we know
Not how they speak above,
When the night and morning meet.