The Death of the Children
(Burnt in a Workhouse Fire, Christmas, 1883)
O Children, Death in kindness bade you rise,
And quit the game, while life was yet but play;
Though sad to us the closing winter day
That quench'd the gleam of laughter in your eyes.
What though the anguish of the dread surprise
Marr'd the young faces when at rest they lay?
One moment summ'd the sorrow-laden way
We weary o'er in growing old and wise.
Mourn not the children. If we needs must mourn,
Be it for those their loss leaves desolate,
While death withholds his oft-entreated boon.
And should they sorrow, that, by toil unworn,
Their dear ones rest so early, and kind fate
Spares them the heat and burden of the noon?
O Children, Death in kindness bade you rise,
And quit the game, while life was yet but play;
Though sad to us the closing winter day
That quench'd the gleam of laughter in your eyes.
What though the anguish of the dread surprise
Marr'd the young faces when at rest they lay?
One moment summ'd the sorrow-laden way
We weary o'er in growing old and wise.
Mourn not the children. If we needs must mourn,
Be it for those their loss leaves desolate,
While death withholds his oft-entreated boon.
And should they sorrow, that, by toil unworn,
Their dear ones rest so early, and kind fate
Spares them the heat and burden of the noon?
Translation:
Language:
Reviews
No reviews yet.