THE infant sang; the mother, life near over, Upon her darkened bed lay moaning, white; While Death above in the dim air did hover. I heard Death's rattle and the singing mite. His playful babble sounding by the skylight, Told all the bliss from five brief summers drawn; His mother when he fell asleep with twilight, Beside his tender breathing coughed till dawn. They bore her to the grave for her last slumber; But the child's happy singing did not fail: Grief is a fruit; God wills not it should cumber The slender branches for its load too frail. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...EPITAPH IN BALLADE FORM by FRANCOIS VILLON CASABIANCA by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS HENRY PURCELL by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS VALENTINES TO MY MOTHER: 1876 by CHRISTINA GEORGINA ROSSETTI PROUD MAISIE, FR. THE HEART OF MIDLOTHIAN by WALTER SCOTT THE HIGHER PANTHEISM by ALFRED TENNYSON THE METAMORPHOSIS OF THE WALNUT-TREE OF BOARSTELL: CANTO 1 by WILLIAM BASSE |