Infant' graves are steps of angels, where <br />Earth's brightest gems of innocence repose. <br />God is their parent, and they need no tear; <br />He takes them to His bosom from earth's woes, <br />A bud their lifetime and a flower their close. <br />Their spirits are an Iris of the skies, <br />Needing no prayers; a sunset's happy close. <br />Gone are the bright rays of their soft blue eyes; <br />Flowers weep in dew-drops oer them, and the gale gently sighs <br /> <br />Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower, <br />Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye. <br />Their deaths were dew-drops on Heaven's amaranth bower, <br />And tolled on flowers as Summer gales went by. <br />They bowed and trembled, and they left no sigh, <br />And the sun smiled to show their end was well. <br />Infants have nought to weep for ere they die; <br />All prayers are needless, beads they need not tell, <br />White flowers their mourners are, Nature their passing bell.<br /><br />John Clare<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/graves-of-infants/
