Song for Dead Children

We set great wreaths of brightness on the graves of the passionate who required tribute of hot July flowers— for you, O brittle-hearted, we bring offering remembering how your wrists were thin and your delicate bones not yet braced for conquering. The sharp cries of ghost-boys are keen above the meadows, and little girls continue graceful and wondering. Flickering evening on the lakes recalls those young heirs whose developing years have sunk to earth, their strength not tested, their praise unsung. Weave grasses for their childhood—who will never see love or disaster or take sides against decay balancing the choices of maturity. Silent and coffined in silence while we pass loud in defiance of death, the helpless lie. October 1935