A poem ...

For the horrific tragedy that unfolded in Connecticut this morning.

On the Death of My Child

by Joseph Von Eichendorff
translated from the German by Kate Flores

Far off the clouds are striking,
The night is growing late,
The lamp is burning low now,
Your little bed is made.

Only the wind is wailing
Round about the house
While we sit here lonely,
Listening without.

It is as if you were softly
Going to knock on the door,
Tired after straying,
And come back once more.

Foolish, foolish people!
We are the ones who roam
Still lost in dread of the darkness--
You have long since been home.