Текст оригинала на английском языке
To a Child During Sickness
SLEEP breathes at last from out thee, My little patient boy; And balmy rest about thee Smooths off the day's annoy. I sit me down, and think Of all thy winning ways; Yet almost wish, with sudden shrink, That I had less to praise. Thy sidelong pillowed meekness; Thy thanks to all that aid; Thy heart, in pain and weakness, Of fancied faults afraid; The little trembling hand That wipes thy quiet tears,— These, these are things that may demand Dread memories for years. Sorrows I 've had, severe ones, I will not think of now; And calmly, midst my dear ones, Have wasted with dry brow; But when thy fingers press And pat my stooping head, I cannot bear the gentleness,— The tears are in their bed. Ah, first-born of thy mother, When life and hope were new; Kind playmate of thy brother, Thy sister, father too; My light, where'er I go; My bird, when prison-bound; My hand-in-hand companion—No, My prayers shall hold thee round. To say, "He has departed"— "His voice"—"his face"—is gone, To feel impatient-hearted, Yet feel we must bear on,— Ah, I could not endure To whisper of such woe, Unless I felt this sleep insure That it will not be so. Yes, still he 's fixed, and sleeping! This silence too the while,— Its very hush and creeping Seem whispering us a smile; Something divine and dim Seems going by one's ear, Like parting wings of cherubim, Who say, "We 've finished here."
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