That is your little playmate, Jane, His coffin, with its flowers; You will not play with him again, For hours, my child and hours! With head bowed down to hide her grief, She faltered, with a sigh: 'To have such lovely flowers as his Would any child not die!' | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SLEEPLESS NIGHT by SARA TEASDALE VIGNETTES OVERSEAS: 2. OFF ALGIERS by SARA TEASDALE THE CHIMNEY SWEEPER, FR. SONGS OF EXPERIENCE by WILLIAM BLAKE PARADISE by FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER ONLY WAITING by FRANCES LAUGHTON MACE POLITICAL GREATNESS by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY |