He could not die when trees were green, <br />For he loved the time too well. <br />His little hands, when flowers were seen, <br />Were held for the bluebell, <br />As he was carried o'er the green. <br /> <br />His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee; <br />He knew those children of the spring: <br />When he was well and on the lea <br />He held one in his hands to sing, <br />Which filled his heart with glee. <br /> <br />Infants, the children of the spring! <br />How can an infant die <br />When butterflies are on the wing, <br />Green grass, and such a sky? <br />How can they die at spring? <br /> <br />He held his hands for daisies white, <br />And then for violets blue, <br />And took them all to bed at night <br />That in the green fields grew, <br />As childhood's sweet delight. <br /> <br />And then he shut his little eyes, <br />And flowers would notice not; <br />Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise, <br />He now no blossoms got; <br />They met with plaintive sighs. <br /> <br />When winter came and blasts did sigh, <br />And bare were plain and tree, <br />As he for ease in bed did lie <br />His soul seemed with the free, <br />He died so quietly.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-dying-child/
