Little boy, gentle boy, Why so desolate? Has Heaven's proselyting joy Converted you to hate? Little lad with lips that lace Like a butterfly, Has that amaranth your face Learned that flowers die? Why do you look so quaintly wise, Gold-haired little Master? What sunken shadow traps your eyes In delicate disaster? Little lad, have Heaven's guns Hushed your earnest prattle?— Who told you, Lad, God raises sons To slay them all in battle! |