Archibald Lampman (1861–1899)

NOT, not for thee,

Belovèd child, the burning grasp of life

Shall bruise the tender soul. The noise, and strife,

And clamour of midday thou shalt not see;

But wrapped for ever in thy quiet grave,

Too little to have known the earthly lot,

Time’s clashing hosts above thine innocent head,

Wave upon wave,

Shall break, or pass as with an army’s tread,

And harm thee not.

A few short years

We of the living flesh and restless brain

Shall plumb the deeps of life and know the strain,

The fleeting gleams of joy, the fruitless tears;

And then at last when all is touched and tried,

Our own immutable night shall fall, and deep

In the same silent plot, O little friend,

Side by thy side,

In peace that changeth not, nor knoweth end,

We too shall sleep.