John Clare (1793–1864)

INFANTS’ gravemounds are steps of angels, where

Earth’s brightest gems of innocence repose.

God is their parent, so they need no tear;

He takes them to his bosom from earth’s woes—

A bud their lifetime and a flower their close.

Their spirits are the Iris of the skies,

Needing no prayer; a sunset’s happy close.

Gone are the bright rays of their soft blue eyes;

Flow’rs weep in dew-drops o’er them, and the gale gently sighs.

Their lives were nothing but a sunny shower,

Melting on flowers as tears melt from the eye.

Each death

Was toll’d on flowers as summer gales went by:

They bow’d and trembled, yet they heaved no sigh;

And the sun smiled to show the end was well.

Infants have naught to weep for ere they die,

All prayers are needless, beads they need not tell;

White flowers their mourners are, Nature their passing bell.