The Death of the First Born
Cover him over with daisies whiteAnd eke with the poppies red,Sit with me here by his couch to-night,For the First-Born, Love, is dead.
Poor little fellow, he seemed so fairAs he lay in my jealous arms;Silent and cold he is lying thereStripped of his darling charms.
Lusty and strong he had grown forsooth,Sweet with an infinite grace,Proud in the force of his conquering youth,Laughter alight in his face.
Oh, but the blast, it was cruel and keen,And ah, but the chill it was rare;The look of the winter-kissed flow’r you’ve seenWhen meadows and fields were bare.
Can you not wake from this white, cold sleepAnd speak to me once again?True that your slumber is deep, so deep,But deeper by far is my pain.
Cover him over with daisies white,And eke with the poppies red,Sit with me here by his couch to-night,For the First-Born, Love, is dead.