Page:Roden Noel - A Little Child's Monument - 1881.pdf/107



I. little bodies, from the tide Last gathered, lie alone; No father maddens by the side Of Love turned into stone; No mother weeps here for her pride, Her joy for ever flown. They were all innocence and mirth, Warm light of loving eyes; They are defiled and ruined earth, The passing stranger flies. The twain who watched them warmly curled, Asleep with locks of gold, Felt that for them the whole wide world Nestled there aureoled. And now they lie unknown, unnamed, In London's awful roar; Over them piteous, unclaimed