On the Death of a Little Child

Her pretty dances were her own,

Her songs were by no other sung;

And all the laughter in her house

Was started by her own sweet tongue.

This little dance and song composer,

This laughter maker, sweet and small,

Will never more be seen or heard-

For her the Sexton’s bell does toll.

The shining eye are closed for aye,

And that small, crimson mouth of mirth;

The little feet, the little hands-

All stiff and cold inside the earth.