COVER him over with daisies white, <br />And eke with the poppies red, <br />Sit with me here by his couch to-night, <br />For the First-Born, Love, is dead. <br />Poor little fellow, he seemed so fair <br />As he lay in my jealous arms; <br />Silent and cold he is lying there <br />Stripped of his darling charms. <br />Lusty and strong he had grown forsooth, <br />Sweet with an infinite grace, <br />Proud in the force of his conquering youth, <br />Laughter alight in his face. <br />Oh, but the blast, it was cruel and keen, <br />And ah, but the chill it was rare; <br />The look of the winter-kissed flow'r you've seen <br />When meadows and fields were bare. <br />Can you not wake from this white, cold sleep <br />And speak to me once again? <br />True that your slumber is deep, so deep, <br />But deeper by far is my pain. <br />Cover him over with daisies white, <br />And eke with the poppies red, <br />Sit with me here by his couch to-night, <br />For the First-Born, Love, is dead.<br /><br />Paul Laurence Dunbar<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-death-of-the-first-born/
