A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields/Sonnet—The Grave-digger (Joséphin Soulary)
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Sonnet.—THE GRAVE-DIGGER.
With every human child, an elf or fay
Is born, who plies the sexton's merry trade,
And digs beneath incessant, with a spade,
A grave where tumble must the man one day.
Know you your elf? Dark, hideous, they say,
He is at times, one shivers at his shade;
Mine own has looks so gentle, that I made
No terms with him, but gave him all his way.
A bright child, red and white, with lips so sweet!
On,—on he pushes me with his caresses,
Assassin more charming one rarely may meet!
Rogue, hast thou finished? Despatch, for time presses—
A kiss at the last, when the earth-bed is deep!
And lay me on flowers, softly, softly to sleep.