A Little Child's Monument/At his Grave
If death were an eternal sleep,
I would lay me down by him,
Never to wound more, nor to weep,
Nor grope aweary, maimed, and dim,
Inflict no injury, no pain,
Nor ache with this dull doubt again!
While the birken shadows pass
O’er the marble and the grass,
I lean upon thy cross and weep;
Very sweet were sleep,
With ne’er a tear,
Nor hope nor fear!
If thou behold me from thy bowers
Smile on mine offering of flowers,
And help me, dear!
Thou hast entered into life,
While we rave in mortal strife:
Love, receive the offering
Of unworthy words I bring!
Lo! I lay them on thy tomb;
May they a little lighten gloom,
Soothe an aching void, and bless
In love's distress!
Thou should have laid me my in quiet grave,
Sorrowing calm;
And I with folded palm.
But now above thine own behold I rave!
With all thy life before thee so to die,
Unseasonably!
"Whom the gods love die young;"
To that sweet saying, then, I clung.
Ghastly Doubt, and chilling Fear,
The wan Ages' Quest is here,
Trembling Hope, and faltering Faith,
Intent on what God whispereth.
It was thy leaving me that shook
Content in this deluding nook
Of rainbow life, that seems upbuoyed
A moment in a rayless void;
So I sought for firmer ground;
And I tell to others what I found.
I would embalm thee in my verse:
To loving souls it shall rehearse
Thy loveliness when I am cold,
And fragrant with it, may enfold
For other hearts in misery
Faint solace; words were sweet to me
From hearts, who mourned what seemed to be
Dear, like thee:
These are thy swathings of rare spice,
A golden shrine with gems of price,
A monument of my device.