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Poem by Charles Tennyson Turner
IT was her first sweet child, her heart’s delight; And though we all foresaw his early doom, We kept the fearful secret out of sight; We saw the canker, but she kissed the bloom. And yet it might not be: we could not brook To vex her happy heart with vague alarms, To blanch with fear her fond intrepid look, Or send a thrill through those encircling arms. She smiled upon him, waking or at rest; She could not dream her little child would die; She tossed him fondly with an upward eye; She seemed as buoyant as a summer spray That dances with a blossom on its breast, Nor knows how soon it will be borne away.
Charles Tennyson Turner
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