YOU must be sad; for though it is to Heaven, 'Tis hard to yield a little girl of seven. Alas, for me 'tis hard my grief to rule, Who only met her as she went to school; Who never heard the little lips so sweet Say even 'Good-morning,' though our eyes would meet As whose would fain be friends! How must you sigh, Sick for your loss, when even so sad am I, Who never clasp'd the small hands any day! Fair flowers thrive round the little grave, I pray. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...COMPANIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON EVENTIDE by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON LOST ILLUSIONS by GEORGIA DOUGLAS JOHNSON DOMESDAY BOOK: HENRY MURRAY by EDGAR LEE MASTERS VICTOR RAFOLSKI ON ART by EDGAR LEE MASTERS IN THE DAYS OF PRISMATIC COLOR by MARIANNE MOORE TO A FRIEND WRITING ON CABARET DANCERS by EZRA POUND |