Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/122

The child who is my world, my mead, my grove,
The fruit, the flower, the fountain of my love!
He lives and blooms anew, fresh, pure, and undefiled.
Our blossom breathes a holier breath
In the calm cool night of Death;
Tho' he so fair in life reposed,
The petals of his soul were closed.

A dorhawk whirrs around the plain,
Philomel hath ceased to sing,
But a cuckoo still is fain
To send his voice on languid wing
Through the elflight at intervals,
As in a drowsy vision calls;
A dream of groves and waterfalls,
And pale gold of young corn imbues
His languid tone that flows and falls
Among star-worlds, and starry dews.
O balmy nights within the dells
So far behind of vanished years!
O nights within the blessed years!
How are ye reft of all your spells,
Returning so! ye know that one
Out of your stilly trance hath gone,
Lost! and do ye calmly breathe? …
… What is our life, and what is death?
How often have I paced the path