All-Brother, The,

Ah, not alone our circle-so narrowed here, 
     So broadening there on that strange other coast 
     We dream of, and thou wakenest to—hath lost
A more than brother—by the baby's bier, 
Mothers who blessed thee, strong men bowed with fear
     Of their grim gods—who, rising jubilant, tossed 
     Their chains away in the new Pentecost 
Of thy Evangel—children who drew near 
And plucked thy garments, looking up, pure-eyed, 
     With a sweet silent confidence to claim 
Thy blessing on them; aye, and from our wide 
     Humanity, the poor of every name, 
Loving or suffering, mourn thee, even as we 
Who are thine by hands that clung to the same mother's knee.