Ah! bitter chance! no hand the blow could ward! Nor shield from harm her little guileless breast, New to this perilous world, and daily prest To a fond mother's heart; her lot seems hard; But lo! her face is calm - a gentle tone Seems murmuring from those lips that breathe no more, 'Come, little sister, marked for heaven before! I crave that hand, yet smaller than mine own, That baby-hand, to clasp again in mine!' Sweet spirit! as thou wishest, it shall be; Death drops his wing on younger heads than thine, Though thine is of the youngest; soon to thee The little sister of thy soul shall come And one low funeral bell shall bring ye home! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE MONK IN THE KITCHEN by ANNA HEMPSTEAD BRANCH COMFORT [TO A YOUTH THAT HAD LOST HIS LOVE] by ROBERT HERRICK THE WHITE ISLAND, OR PLACE OF THE BLEST by ROBERT HERRICK EVENING CLOUDS by FRANCIS LEDWIDGE TO A BLOCKHEAD by ALEXANDER POPE |