Dust of my dust, <br />And dust with my dust, <br />O, child who died as you entered the world, <br />Dead with my death! <br />Not knowing breath, though you tried so hard, <br />With a heart that beat when you lived with me, <br />And stopped when you left me for Life. <br />It is well, my child. For you never traveled <br />The long, long way that begins with school days, <br />When little fingers blur under the tears <br />That fall on the crooked letters. <br />And the earliest wound, when a little mate <br />Leaves you alone for another; <br />And sickness, and the face of Fear by the bed; <br />The death of a father or mother; <br />Or shame for them, or poverty; <br />The maiden sorrow of school days ended; <br />And eyeless Nature that makes you drink <br />From the cup of Love, though you know it's poisoned; <br />To whom would your flower-face have been lifted? <br />Botanist, weakling? Cry of what blood to yours?--- <br />Pure or fool, for it makes no matter, <br />It's blood that calls to our blood. <br />And then your children---oh, what might they be? <br />And what your sorrows? Child! Child! <br />Death is better than Life!<br /><br />Edgar Lee Masters<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/elizabeth-childers/
