There Was A Child That Screamed, And If It Was The Gathering Tingling Dark, Or If It Was The Tingling Silences Between Few Words, Or If The Water'S Drip And Quivering Drip-- Who Knows? Or If The Child Half Sleeping Suddenly Dreamed-- Who Knows? For She Knew Not, But Was Afraid, And Then Angry With Fear, And Then It Seemed Afraid Of All The Voices Echoing Hers. And Then Afraid Again Of That Drip, Drip Of Water Somewhere Near. Yet A Man Dying Would Not With Such Fear Scream Out At Hell. Easier It Were To Die Than To Endure, Unless Death Brought The Instant Consciousness Of All The Wrongs Of All Lost Years Falling Like Water, Drip After Trembling Drip Upon The Naked Anguish Of The Soul. But Death'S Stupidity Is Gentle To The Lunatic Last Wits. Little Of Terror, Little Of Consciousness, But Stupor, A Great Ease, Narrowing Silences, And Silence; And Then No More The Drip, Drip Of The Years, No More The Strangeness, Agonies And Fears; No More The Noise, But One Imponderable Unhaunted Hush.... I Heard The Child That Cried Chattering A Moment After In The Light, And Singing Out Of Such Contentment As Lamps And Familiar Voices Bring. She Needs Must Sing Now That Sharp, Spiny Agony Thrust No More, Nor Water Fell, Drip, Drip By Quivering Drip; Her Face Was Bright, Unapprehensive As A Day In Spring.