GRAVES OF INFANTS
1
Infants graves are steps of angels, where
Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose;
God is their parent, they need no tear,
He takes them to his bosom from earth's woes;
A bud their life-time, and a flower their close.
Their spirits are an iris of the skies,
Needing no prayers—a sunset's happy close.
Gone are the bright rays of their soft blue eyes;
Dews on flowers mourn them, and the gale that sighs.
2
Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower,
Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye:
Their death were dew-drops on heavens amaranthine bower;
'Twas told on flowers as summer gales went by.
They bowed, and trembled, yet they left no sigh,
And the sun smiled to show their end was well.
Infants have nought to weep for ere they die.
All prayers are needless—beads they need not tell;
White flowers their mourners are, nature their passing bell.
June 1844.
