Classic Poem

They bore the little dying boy
Through his beloved wood,
The sweet song-sparrows hushed their joy,
The pine trees silent stood.

The tiny ripples from the lake
Crept noiseless down the shore,
And even the brook seemed for his sake
Less boisterous than before.

The sunbeams never blinked their eyes,
Quite still were light and shade,
While here and there the droning flies
A solemn music made.

'Twas plain his woodland friends had heard,
And nature all around
Mourned, as when some sweet singing bird
Has fallen to the ground.

But he, our little dying boy,
Forgetting all his pain,
Passed prattling by in childish joy
And never came again.