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Poem by Charles Tennyson Turner

Her First-Born

IT was her first sweet child, her hearts 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

Charles Tennyson Turner's other poems:
  1. Our Mary and the Child Mummy
  2. From Harvest to January
  3. The Rookery
  4. The Lions Skeleton
  5. Orion

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