The Dead Child
Posted on July 7, 2007 - Filed Under Gothic Poetry
Carrie died shortly after this picture was taken. Ruth grieved herself to death, wouldn’t permit little Wilder to whistle in the house.
The Dead Child
Let in the light of the fair sun,
And leave me here alone;
This hour with thee must be the last,
My dear unspotted one.
Thy bier waits in the silent street,
And voiceless men are there,
While in sad, solemn intervals,
The bell strikes on the air.
Through the bare trees the autumn wind
With rustling song complains
To the deep vales, and echoing hills,
In sad funeral strain.
And this is death; — these heavy eyes,
This eloquent, sweet face,
Where beauty, thron’d in innocence,
Sat with celestial grace.
These limbs, whose chiseled marble lines
But shame the sculptor’s skill,
In more than mortal slumber wrapt,
Unconscious, cold, and still.
Seal up the fountains of my eyes,
This is no place for tears, —
These are but painted images
That mock my hopes and fears.
Backward this little hand in mine,
Feeling thou still art here,
I trace the blissful joys and cares
That filled thy short career.
That bright intelligence that gleamed
From out those infant eyes,
Seems still to point with blissful beams,
The pathway to the skies.
But this is death! beneath whose touch
Cold, unrelenting power!
Beauty’s unwithered garlands fall,
To perish in an hour.
Take up the bier, and bear it hence, —
It were in vain to weep;
But gently, and with noiseless step,
As to the couch of sleep.
The measured journey to the grave,
Is dark to him who fears
To scan the blotted memories
Of unrepented years.
To us, who bear this child to-day,
No pang like this is given;
The door we shut upon its tomb
Encloses it in Heaven.
Source: Willow Leaves: Or, Whispers to the Sorrowful. 1852
