THE DEAD CHILD

Sleep on, dear, now

The last sleep and the best,

And on thy brow,

And on thy quiet breast

Violets I throw.

Thy scanty years

Were mine a little while;

Life had no fears

To trouble thy brief smile

With toil or tears.

Lie still, and be

For evermore a child!

Not grudgingly,

Whom life has not defiled,

I render thee.

Slumber so deep,

No man would rashly wake;

I hardly weep,

Fain only, for thy sake.

To share thy sleep.

Yes, to be dead,

Dead, here with thee to-day,—

When all is said

‘ Twere good by thee to lay

My weary head.

The very best!

Ah, child so tired of play,

I stand confessed:

I want to come thy way,

And share thy rest.