The Dying Child

He could not die when trees were green,        For he loved the time too well.    His little hands, when flowers were seen,        Were held for the bluebell,        As he was carried o'er the green.    His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;        He knew those children of the spring:    When he was well and on the lea        He held one in his hands to sing,       Which filled his heart with glee.   Infants, the children of the spring!       How can an infant die   When butterflies are on the wing,       Green grass, and such a sky?       How can they die at spring?   He held his hands for daisies white,       And then for violets blue,   And took them all to bed at night       That in the green fields grew,       As childhood's sweet delight.   And then he shut his little eyes,       And flowers would notice not;   Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,       He now no blossoms got;       They met with plaintive sighs.   When winter came and blasts did sigh,       And bare were plain and tree,   As he for ease in bed did lie       His soul seemed with the free,       He died so quietly.

Form: ababa 1.

This belongs to the group of poems written while Clare was confined in the Northampton County Asylum from 1842 until his death in 1864.