Look at his pretty face for just one minute ! <br />His braided frock and dainty buttoned shoes, <br />His firm-shut hand, the favorite plaything in it, <br />Then, tell me, mothers, was it not hard to lose <br />And miss him from my side,— <br />My little boy that died? <br /> <br />How many another boy, as dear and charming, <br />His father's hope, his mother's one delight, <br />Slips through strange sicknesses, all fear disarming, And lives a long, long life in parents' sight <br />Mine was so short a pride: <br />And then—my poor boy died. <br /> <br />I see him rocking on his wooden charger; <br />I hear him pattering through the house all day; <br />I watch his great blue eyes grow large and larger, Listening to stories, whether grave or gay <br />Told at the bright fireside— <br />So dark now, since he died. <br /> <br />But yet I often think my boy is living, <br />As living as my other children are. <br />When good-night kisses I all round am giving <br />I keep one for him, though he is so far. <br />Can a mere grave divide <br />Me from him—though he died? <br /> <br />So, while I come and plant it o'er with daisies <br />(Nothing but childish daisies all year round) <br />Continually God's hand the curtain raises, <br />And I can hear his merry voice's sound, <br />And I feel him at my side— <br />My little boy that died.<br /><br />Henry Austin Dobson<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/my-little-boy-that-died/
