Loading
On a Dead Child
Perfect little body, without fault or stain on thee, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life doth awhile remain on thee.
Thy mother’s treasure wert thou;—alas! no longer To visit her heart with wondrous joy; to be Thy father’s pride;—ah, he Must gather his faith together, and his strength make stronger.
To me, as I move thee now in the last duty, Dost thou with a turn or gesture anon respond; Startling my fancy fond With a chance attitude of the head, a freak of beauty.
Thy hand clasps, as ’twas wont, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if ’Twas still thy will, thy pleasure and trust that enfolds it.
So I lay thee there, thy sunken eyelids closing,— Go lie thou there in thy coffin, thy last little bed!— Propping thy wise, sad head, Thy firm, pale hands across thy chest disposing.
So quiet! doth the change content thee?—Death, whither hath he taken thee? To a world, do I think, that rights the disaster of this? The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish but to warm thee and awaken thee?
Ah! little at best can all our hopes avail us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen and have known and have heard of, fail us.
Perfect little body, without fault or stain on you, With promise of strength and manhood full and fair! Though cold and stark and bare, The bloom and the charm of life still remain on you for a while.
You were your mother’s treasure;—alas! no longer To bring wondrous joy to her heart; to be Your father’s pride;—ah, he Must gather his faith and make his strength stronger.
As I move you now in the last duty, Do you respond with a turn or gesture? Surprising my fond imagination With a chance attitude of your head, a moment of beauty.
Your hand clasps, as it used to, my finger, and holds it: But the grasp is the clasp of Death, heartbreaking and stiff; Yet feels to my hand as if It was still your will, your pleasure and trust that holds it.
So I lay you there, your sunken eyelids closing,— Go lie there in your coffin, your last little bed!— Supporting your wise, sad head, Your firm, pale hands across your chest.
So quiet! does the change satisfy you?—Death, where has he taken you? To a world, I think, that corrects this disaster? The vision of which I miss, Who weep for the body, and wish only to warm you and awaken you?
Ah! little can all our hopes do for us To lift this sorrow, or cheer us, when in the dark, Unwilling, alone we embark, And the things we have seen, known, and heard of, fail us.