by: Richard Middleton

      AN proposes, God in His time disposes,
      And so I wander'd up to where you lay,
      A little rose among the little roses,
      And no more dead than they.
      It seemed your childish feet were tired of straying,
      You did not greet me from your flower-strewn bed,
      Yet still I knew that you were only playing--
      Playing at being dead.
      I might have thought that you were really sleeping,
      So quiet lay your eyelids to the sky,
      So still your hair, but surely you were peeping;
      And so I did not cry.
      God knows, and in His proper time disposes,
      And so I smiled and gently called your name,
      Added my rose to your sweet heap of roses,
      And left you to your game.

'On a Dead Child' is reprinted from An Anthology of Modern Verse. Ed. A. Methuen. London: Methuen & Co., 1921.


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