This is a poem by Dorothy Wellesley, for anyone who has ever lost a child
He is not dead nor liveth
The little child in the grave,
And men have known for ever
That he walketh again,
They hear him November evenings,
When acorns fall with the rain.
Teach me then the heart of the dead child
Teach me all that the child who knew life
And the quiet of death,
To the croon of the cradle song
By his brother’s crib
In the deeps of the nursery dusk
To his mother saith
