“Think of the big ones, and think of the small!
Of the baby in the cradle think thou most of all.”
“I think not of the big ones, I think not of the small!
Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.”
(Ha, ha, ha!
Of the baby in the cradle I’ll think no more at all.)
ORIGINAL
MORS JANUA VITÆ
It was the outworn clay
That slept in endless peace;
It was the dead man’s sprite,
All in the wan moonlight
An hour before the day,
That mourned, and might not cease.
“Oh body, oh body of mine,
Deep, deep and soft thy rest!
Thy burning now is cold
In kindly churchyard and mould,
That weights thy wearied eyne
And thine untroubled breast.
“But I must wander and wail—
Must bear, in wrath and rue,
The burning of quenchless fire—
The frustrate, deep desire
For heights I did not scale,
For deeds I did not do.
“Oh warm life left behind!
Oh hearts that held me dear!
In my remembered place
Dwells healing and solace,
Among the kinsmen kind
Who decked my sepulchre.”