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.