Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
On the Death of a fair InfantJohn Milton (16081674)
O
Soft silken primrose fading timelessly,
Summer’s chief honour if thou hadst outlasted
Bleak Winter’s force that made thy blossom dry:
For he being amorous on that lovely dye
That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss,
But killed alas! and then bewailed his fatal bliss.
Or that thy corse corrupts in earth’s dark womb,
Or that thy beauties lie in wormy bed
Hid from the world in a low delvèd tomb;
Could Heaven, for pity, thee so strictly doom?
Oh no! for something in thy face did shine
Above mortality that showed thou wast divine.