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Poem by Frederick Locker-Lampson
To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew, A pair of child-lovers I’ve seen, More than once were they there, and the years of the two, When added, might number thirteen. They sat on the grave which had never a stone The name of the dead to determine, It was Life paying Death a brief visit—alone A notable text for a sermon. They tenderly prattled,—what was it they said? The turf on that hillock was new: O! kenn’d ye, poor little ones, aught of the dead, Or could he be heedful of you? I wish to believe, and believe it I must, That a father beneath them was laid: I wish to believe,—I will take it on trust, That father knew all that they said. My Own, you are five, very nearly the age Of that poor little fatherless child; And some day a true-love your heart will engage When on earth I my last may have smil’d. Then visit my grave, like a good little lass, Where’er it may happen to be, And if any daisies should peer through the grass, Be sure they are kisses from me. And place not a stone to distinguish my name, For strangers and gossips to see, But come with your lover as these lovers came, And talk to him gaily of me. And while you are smiling, your father will smile Such a sweet little daughter to have: But mind, O yes! mind you are merry the while— I wish you to visit my grave.
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