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UPON A CHILD THAT DIED
Here she lies, a pretty bud,
Lately made of flesh and blood;
Who as soon fell fast asleep,
As her little eyes did peep.
--Give her strewings, but not stir
The earth, that lightly covers her.
Poems on the topic: child
Poems on the topic “child” on Poets.by.
Holy Thursday
'Twas on a Holy Thursday, their innocent faces clean,
Came children walking two and two, in read, and blue, and green:
Grey-headed beadles walked before, with wands as white as snow,
Till into the high dome of Paul's they like Thames waters flow.
Oh what a multitude they seemed, these flowers of London town!
Seated in companies they sit, with radiance all their own.
The hum of multitudes was there, but multitudes of lambs,
Thousands of little boys and girls raising their innocent hands.
Now like a mighty wild they raise to heaven the voice of song,
Or like harmonious thunderings the seats of heaven among:
Beneath them sit the aged man, wise guardians of the poor.
Nurse's Song
When the voices of children are heard on the green,
And laughing is heard on the hill,
My heart is at rest within my breast,
And everything else is still.
"Then come home, my children, the sun is gone down,
And the dews of night arise;
Come, come, leave off play, and let us away,
Till the morning appears in the skies."
"No, no, let us play, for it is yet day,
And we cannot go to sleep;
Besides, in the sky the little birds fly,
And the hills are all covered with sheep."
"Well, well, go and play till the light fades away,
And then go home to bed."
The little ones leaped, and shouted, and laughed,
And all the hills echoed.
Mother and Babe.
I SEE the sleeping babe, nestling the breast of its mother;
The sleeping mother and babe—hush’d, I study them long and long.
From The Short Story Shadow-Children
Little shadows, little shadows
Dancing on the chamber wall,
While I sit beside the hearthstone
Where the red flames rise and fall.
Caps and nightgowns, caps and nightgowns,
My three antic shadows wear;
And no sound they make in playing,
For the six small feet are bare.
Dancing gayly, dancing gayly,
To and fro all together,
Like a family of daisies
Blown about in windy weather;
Nimble fairies, nimble fairies,
Playing pranks in the warm glow,
While I sing the nursery ditties
Childish phantoms love and know.
Child artists
art that sings
we all unlearn to limn
beginning eyes
take great light
In the Mountains of the Lion
Imagine having to go on with no way to touch.
Giving birth to the child of who knows which
stoned soldier, & never knowing the silky
feel of his skin, whether to caress
or to shove away, away.
I let him nurse to ease the swelling in my breasts.
I licked him like a cat — it was all the salt I could get.
Were they not terrible, those severed hands,
when they stood back up at last
& began to point?
Suspended animation
waiting I am one
with the small sum of a heart
the ash of a warrant
the no one there of water
the sleep of a dead child
What about the children
Easter is for the glorious
children of amours
bastard children that know
the best world going
children grown odd in the fields
watching the horses
Walking therapy
who is in mourning
who with an ear is not
but not seeing how to help it
I walk to the park
to the great elm
and walnut filled with stories
and in a ruined garden
a little girl singing
Omission
no news is plague news
shutting up infected people
and nobody imagining their pain
no news is like meeting an angel
more than air
more than some poor child
and dying daily of sadness
at my heart having nothing
Unbirthed
in the absence of light I will eat
a mouthful of money
the undone child is ready
to fall down again
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