On The Bosom Of The Deep Poem by Robert Kirkland Kernighan

In the past time long ago, when a little babe was young :
When a little baby, spotless, in its cradle went to sleep ;

When a young wife crooned and carolled, with a sweet,

melodious tongue,
And kisses fell like rain-drops on the bosom of the deep.

On baby's little hands and face the kisses downward fell,
And even in the neighborhood where little pink toes

peep;
The mother crooned a monody, and, ah ! she crooned it

well,

And a song-prayer floated Fateward o'er the bosom of
the deep.

She dreamed she saw the baby grow up to be a man ;
She dreamed she saw him climbing the dizzy hill-side

steep,
And the breath of pride came o'er her, like the rush of

Heaven's fan,

And her glad thanksgivings pattered on the bosom of
the deep.

I 'll tell you the reality : He grew to be a man :

He drank himself to death, in a ditch all dark and steep ;
She waited for him, lonely, while her face was pinched

and wan,

And her moaning chilled the angels on the bosom of
the deep.

The mother woke and saw it, like a lily bud afloat ;

She said : ' No tears of shame or pain I 'll ever o'er

thee weep !'
She took her husband's razor and she slashed its little

throat !

And the blood drops dript down softly on the bosom of
the deep.