Classic Poem

My little girl's face was white as snow;
I can't tell you how bright and intelligent she was.
She was talking by the time she was two,
her tongue more elastic than a parrot.
At three she became girl-conscious, reserved;
she didn't go outside the gate to play.
This year she was four; already she was good at sewing.
How could she be deprived of life,
how could she be gone to the other world?
It was all so sudden it's unreal:
a nestling fallen to the ground before it could grow,
a terrible indictment of her father's home.
I am acquainted with the Way;
I can bear my pain to a point,
but the tears of my wife, when will they end?
I look at the field:
new shoots beset by unseasonable wind and hail
face certain destruction.
The Creator put her here;
the Creator just as suddenly snatched her away.
What happens in this world is all subterfuge;
life's comings and goings are illusory.
It's all over now; go in peace to your eternal rest.