To a Child in Heaven

You perished, in a toyland, of surprise; and only I am here to bury you in dessicated tulip tips and eyes of broken diadie-dolls. Poor pink, poor blue! Will you be grown when I’m in Heaven too? Will length of death have turned you Classical like old Bisque faces, keen and sainted view, pearl on your breast, pearl-pointed linen shawl? No, you’ll still have your flowers with no stem, and harp, clear stringed, the blur of La Boheme. You’ll heap upon that Mansion’s mantlepiece impossible plush animal creations, and pout the pillared City’s aberrations. You rest a Classic, but of Wedgewood’s Greece.