Poems (Chilton, 1885)/Dirge for an Infant
DIRGE FOR AN INFANT.
He is dead and gone—a flower
Born and withered in an hour.
Coldly lies the death-frost now
On his little rounded brow;
And the seal of darkness lies
Ever on his shrouded eyes.
He will never feel again
Touch of human joy or pain;
Never will his once bright eyes
Open with a glad surprise,
Nor the death-frost leave his brow—
All is over with him now.
Born and withered in an hour.
Coldly lies the death-frost now
On his little rounded brow;
And the seal of darkness lies
Ever on his shrouded eyes.
He will never feel again
Touch of human joy or pain;
Never will his once bright eyes
Open with a glad surprise,
Nor the death-frost leave his brow—
All is over with him now.
Vacant now his cradle-bed,
As a nest from whence hath fled
Some dear little bird, whose wings
Rest from timid flutterings.
Thrown aside the childish rattle,
Hushed for aye the infant prattle;—
Little broken words that could
By none else be understood
Save the childless one who weeps
O'er the grave where now he sleeps.
Closed his eyes and cold his brow;—
All is over with him now!
As a nest from whence hath fled
Some dear little bird, whose wings
Rest from timid flutterings.
Thrown aside the childish rattle,
Hushed for aye the infant prattle;—
Little broken words that could
By none else be understood
Save the childless one who weeps
O'er the grave where now he sleeps.
Closed his eyes and cold his brow;—
All is over with him now!