On a Little Boy Who Died

You did not wait the spring
For burgeoning,
But ere the first flowers broke our sod
You blossomed at the feet of God.
I think there was that calling in your blood
Long months, and we not understood.
For I remember, now that you are dead,
How often in the days that sped
With shout and play about you, you
Withdrew
And for companion silence took
With a still look.
I noticed, standing by your side,
Your eyes were wonder-wide
And you seemed listening, though my ear
No sound could hear.
Once on your quietness I broke;
As one that woke
From strange dreams, awed but mild,
You caught my words and smiled;
And though with ready speech
You spoke, I knew I could not reach
By any art
The late far-listening heart.
You were wooed gently, little one,
Into the sun.
Death laid aside his awful state
Lest you should fear this new playmate,
And led you off to playgrounds green
Eye hath not seen.
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