The Dead Child

Sleep on, dear, now The last sleep and the best, And on thy brow, And on thy quiet breast Violets I throw. Thy scanty years Were mine a little while; Life had no fears To trouble thy brief smile With toil or tears. Lie still, and be For evermore a child! Not grudgingly, Whom life has not defiled, I render thee. Slumber so deep, No man would rashly wake; I hardly weep, Fain only, for thy sake. To share thy sleep. Yes, to be dead, Dead, here with thee to-day,-- When all is said 'Twere good by thee to lay My weary head. The very best! Ah, child so tired of play, I stand confessed: I want to come thy way, And share thy rest.