Thomas Hood (1799–1845)

O, ’T IS a touching thing to make one weep,—

A tender infant with its curtained eye,

Breathing as it would neither live nor die,

With that unchanging countenance of sleep!

As if its silent dream, serene and deep,

Had lined its slumber with a still blue sky,

So that the passive cheeks unconscious lie

With no more life than roses,—just to keep

The blushes warm, and the mild, odorous breath.

O blossom boy! so calm is thy repose,

So sweet a compromise of life and death,

’T is pity those fair buds should e’er unclose

For memory to stain their inward leaf,

Tinging thy dreams with unacquainted grief.