Elizabeth Barrett Browning — A Child’s Grave at Florence

I. Of English blood, of Tuscan birth,        &nbspWhat country should we give her? Instead of any on the earth,        &nbspThe civic Heavens receive her. II. And here among the English tombs        &nbspIn Tuscan ground we lay her, While the blue Tuscan sky endomes        &nbspOur English words of prayer. III. A little child!—how long she lived,        &nbspBy months, not years, is reckoned: Born in one July, she survived        &nbspAlone to see a second. IV. Bright-featured, as the July sun        &nbspHer little face still played in, And splendours, with her birth begun,        &nbspHad had no time for fading. V. So, Lily, from those July hours,        &nbspNo wonder we should call her; She looked such kinship to the flowers,—        &nbspWas but a little taller. VI. A Tuscan Lily,—only white,        &nbspAs Dante, in abhorrence Of red corruption, wished aright        &nbspThe lilies of his Florence. VII. We could not wish her whiter,—her        &nbspWho perfumed with pure blossom The house—a lovely thing to wear        &nbspUpon a mother’s bosom! VIII. This July creature thought perhaps        &nbspOur speech not worth assuming; She sat upon her parents’ laps        &nbspAnd mimicked the gnat’s humming; IX. Said “father,” “mother”—then left off,        &nbspFor tongues celestial, fitter: Her hair had grown just long enough        &nbspTo catch heaven’s jasper-glitter. X. Babes! Love could always hear and see        &nbspBehind the cloud that hid them. “Let little children come to Me,        &nbspAnd do not thou forbid them.” XI. So, unforbidding, have we met,        &nbspAnd gently here have laid her, Though winter is no time to get        &nbspThe flowers that should o’erspread her: XII. We should bring pansies quick with spring,        &nbspRose, violet, daffodilly, And also, above everything,        &nbspWhite lilies for our Lily. XIII. Nay, more than flowers, this grave exacts,—        &nbspGlad, grateful attestations Of her sweet eyes and pretty acts,        &nbspWith calm renunciations. XIV. Her very mother with light feet        &nbspShould leave the place too earthy, Saying “The angels have thee, Sweet,        &nbspBecause we are not worthy.” XV. But winter kills the orange-buds,        &nbspThe gardens in the frost are, And all the heart dissolves in floods,        &nbspRemembering we have lost her. XVI. Poor earth, poor heart,—too weak, too weak        &nbspTo miss the July shining! Poor heart!—what bitter words we speak        &nbspWhen God speaks of resigning! XVII. Sustain this heart in us that faints,        &nbspThou God, the self-existent! We catch up wild at parting saints        &nbspAnd feel Thy heaven too distant. XVIII. The wind that swept them out of sin        &nbspHas ruffled all our vesture: On the shut door that let them in        &nbspWe beat with frantic gesture,— XIX. To us, us also, open straight!        &nbspThe outer life is chilly; Are we too, like the earth, to wait        &nbspTill next year for our Lily? XX. —Oh, my own baby on my knees,        &nbspMy leaping, dimpled treasure, At every word I write like these,        &nbspClasped close with stronger pressure! XXI. Too well my own heart understands,—        &nbspAt every word beats fuller— My little feet, my little hands,        &nbspAnd hair of Lily’s colour! XXII. But God gives patience, Love learns strength,        &nbspAnd Faith remembers promise, And Hope itself can smile at length        &nbspOn other hopes gone from us. XXIII. Love, strong as Death, shall conquer Death,        &nbspThrough struggle made more glorious: This mother stills her sobbing breath,        &nbspRenouncing yet victorious. XXIV. Arms, empty of her child, she lifts        &nbspWith spirit unbereaven,— “God will not all take back His gifts;        &nbspMy Lily’s mine in heaven. XXV. “Still mine! maternal rights serene        &nbspNot given to another! The crystal bars shine faint between        &nbspThe souls of child and mother. XXVI. “Meanwhile,” the mother cries, “content!        &nbspOur love was well divided: Its sweetness following where she went,        &nbspIts anguish stayed where I did. XXVII. “Well done of God, to halve the lot,        &nbspAnd give her all the sweetness; To us, the empty room and cot,—        &nbspTo her, the Heaven’s completeness. XXVIII. “To us, this grave,—to her, the rows        &nbspThe mystic palm-trees spring in; To us, the silence in the house,—        &nbspTo her, the choral singing. XXIX. “For her, to gladden in God’s view,—        &nbspFor us, to hope and bear on. Grow, Lily, in thy garden new,        &nbspBeside the Rose of Sharon! XXX. “Grow fast in heaven, sweet Lily clipped,        &nbspIn love more calm than this is, And may the angels dewy-lipped        &nbspRemind thee of our kisses! XXXI. “While none shall tell thee of our tears,        &nbspThese human tears now falling, Till, after a few patient years,        &nbspOne home shall take us all in. XXXII. “Child, father, mother—who, left out?        &nbspNot mother, and not father! And when, our dying couch about,        &nbspThe natural mists shall gather, XXXIII. “Some smiling angel close shall stand        &nbspIn old Correggio’s fashion, And bear a Lily in his hand,        &nbspFor death’s ANNUCIATION."