by Archibald Lampman





Not, not for thee,
Beloved child, the burning grasp of life
Shall bruise the tender soil. The noise, and strife,
And clamour of midday thou shalt never see,
But wrapt for ever in thy quiet grave,                                        5
Too little to have known the earthly lot,
Time’s clashing hosts above thine innocent head,
Wave upon wave,
Shall break, or pass as with an army’s tread,
And harm thee not.                                                                  10

A few short years
We of the living flesh and restless brain
Shall plumb the deeps of life and know the strain,
The fleeting gleams of joy, the fruitless tears,
And then at last when all is touched and tried,                     15
Our own immutable night shall fall, and deep
In the same silent plot, O little friend,
Side by thy side,
In peace that changeth not, nor knoweth end,
We too shall sleep.                                                                 20