Dead Child, The. 
By Dowson, Ernest Christopher. 


Sleep on, dear, now
The last sleep and the best,
And on thy brow,
And on thy quiet breast,
Violets I throw.

Thy scanty years
Were mine a little while;
Life had no fears
To trouble thy brief smile
With toil or tears.

Lie still, and be
For evermore a child!
Not grudgingly,
Whom life has not defiled,
I render thee.

Slumber so deep,
No man would rashly wake;
I hardly weep,
Fain only, for thy sake,
To share thy sleep.