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A CHILD ASLEEP.
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    Shapes of brightness overlean thee,
     With their diadems of youth
    Striking on thy ringlets sheenly,—
     While thou smilest, . . . not in sooth
Thy smile . . . but the overfair one, dropt from some ætherial mouth.

    Haply it is angels' duty,
     During slumber, shade by shade
    To fine down this childish beauty
     To the thing it must be made,
Ere the world shall bring it praises, or the tomb shall see it fade.

    Softly, softly! make no noises!
     Now he lieth dead and dumb—
    Now he hears the angels' voices
     Folding silence in the room—
Now he muses deep the meaning of the Heaven-words as they come.

    Speak not! he is consecrated—
     Breathe no breath across his eyes.
    Lifted up and separated
     On the hand of God he lies,
In a sweetness beyond touching,—held in cloistral sanctities.

    Could ye bless him—father—mother?
     Bless the dimple in his cheek?
    Dare ye look at one another,
     And the benediction speak?
Would ye not break out in weeping, and confess yourselves too weak?

    He is harmless—ye are sinful,—
     Ye are troubled—he, at ease!
    From his slumber, virtue winful
     Floweth outward with increase—
Dare not bless him! but be blessed by his peace—and go in peace.