the dying boy.
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Naught that might tell of darkness or decay: But in a cottage home, where the green vines Clambered about the casement, and the sun Peeped stealthily amid the clustering boughs, And the red rose gave her sweet odors forth—There Sorrow sat, and claimed her heritage In human hearts.
Upon his lowly couch Lay like a broken lily, a fair child Just numbering then his tenth bright summer. His clasped hands were white as braided snow-wreaths, And his silken hair, once waving lightly In the summer's breath, now wet with death dews, Fell all heavily on his pure forehead. There was no rose-teint on his wasted cheek, It seemed like Parian marble—and his eye, The lid half drawn, shone faintly, as a star 'Mid parting clouds.
Beside him leaned, heart-sick With hope deferred, and worn with ceaseless vigils, She who had borne him. There was much that told
