Classic Poem

Mine own sweet child, my bright-eyed boy,
My soul still clings to thee;
And all creation smiling fair,
Is dark and sad to me.

Thy broad deep brow, thy manly lip,
I kissed with pride and joy,
And dreamt the task I'd leave undone
Was thine, my noble boy.

But death hath nipt my infant flower
When bursting into bloom,
And all my hopes of happiness
Are buried in the tomb.

The cankered wound will never heal,
It rankles green and sore,
And every happy face I see,
The wound but festers more.

Earth's beauteous brow is decked with flowers
Fresh from the hand of June,
And lark and linnet flood the air
With one melodious tune.—

These flowers so fair, these birds so gay,
They mock my poignant woe,
They bloom, they sing above the grave
Where my fair child lies low.