Vincent Leigh Hunt (1823–1852)

AN ANGEL prisoned in an infant frame

Of mortal sickness and deformity,

Looks patiently from out that languid eye

Matured, and seeming large with pain. The name

Of “happy childhood” mocks his movements tame,

So propped with piteous crutch, or forced to lie

Rather than sit, in his frail chair, and try

To taste the pleasure of the unshared game.

He does; and faintly claps his withered hands

To see how Brother Willie caught the ball;

Kind Brother Willie, strong, yet gentle all:

’T was he that placed him where his chair now stands

In that warm corner, ’gainst the sunny wall.

God, in that brother, gave him more than lands.