THE DYING CHILD
by: John Clare (1793-1864)
POEMS BY JOHN CLARE
- E could
not die when trees were green,
- For he loved the time too well.
- His little hands, when flowers were seen,
- Were held for the bluebell,
- As he was carried o'er the green.
- His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;
- He knew those children of the spring:
- When he was well and on the lea
- He held one in his hands to sing,
- Which filled his heart with glee.
- Infants, the children of the spring!
- How can an infant die
- When butterflies are on the wing,
- Green grass, and such a sky?
- How can they die at spring?
- He held his hands for daisies white,
- And then for violets blue,
- And took them all to bed at night
- That in the green fields grew,
- As childhood's sweet delight.
- And then he shut his little eyes,
- And flowers would notice not;
- Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,
- He now no blossoms got;
- They met with plaintive sighs.
- When winter came and blasts did sigh,
- And bare were plain and tree,
- As he for ease in bed did lie
- His soul seemed with the free,
- He died so quietly.