| Intimations of Mortality |
From Recollections of Early Childhood |
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A simple child . . .
That lightly draws its breath
And feels its life in every limb,
What should it know of death?
Wordsworth.
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It knows but will not tell.
Awake, alone, it counts its father’s years—
How few are left—its mother’s. Ah, how well
It knows of death, in tears.
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If any of the three—
Parents and child—believe they have prevailed
To keep the secret of mortality,
I know that two have failed.
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The third, the lonely, keeps
One secret—a child’s knowledge. When they come
At night to ask wherefore the sweet one weeps,
Those hidden lips are dumb.
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