<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419497" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Dying Child</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">He could not die when trees were green, <br>For he loved the time too well.<br>His little hands, when flowers were seen,<br>Were held for the bluebell,<br>As he was carried o'er the green.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee;<br>He knew those children of the spring:<br>When he was well and on the lea<br>He held one in his hands to sing,<br>Which filled his heart with glee.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Infants, the children of the spring!<br>How can an infant die<br>When butterflies are on the wing,<br>Green grass, and such a sky?<br>How can they die at spring?</div><div style="margin:10px 0">He held his hands for daisies white,<br>And then for violets blue,<br>And took them all to bed at night<br>That in the green fields grew,<br>As childhood's sweet delight.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">And then he shut his little eyes,<br>And flowers would notice not;<br>Birds' nests and eggs caused no surprise,<br>He now no blossoms got;<br>They met with plaintive sighs.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">When winter came and blasts did sigh,<br>And bare were plain and tree,<br>As he for ease in bed did lie<br>His soul seemed with the free,<br>He died so quietly.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Clare">John Clare</a><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419497" data-title="The Dying Child de John Clare" data-description="He could not die when trees were green, For he loved the time too well. His little hands, when flowers were seen, Were held for the bluebell, As he was carried o'er the green. His eye glanced at the white-nosed bee; He knew those children of the..."></div> </div> </div>

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