Classic Poem

It knows but will not tell.
Awake, alone, it counts its father's years—
How few are left—its mother's. Ah, how well
It knows of death, in tears.

If any of the three—
Parents and child—believe they have prevailed
To keep the secret of mortality,
I know that two have failed.

The third, the lonely, keeps
One secret—a child's knowledge. When they come
At night to ask wherefore the sweet one weeps,
Those hidden lips are dumb.