They dar'd not stoop to kiss the pallid face;
But gaz'd awhile, then slowly left the room.
Once they had seen their brother, as he lay
Dead in his little cot: but he had look'd
So beautiful asleep, you might have thought
Death's angel had but gently turned him round,
To rest more quietly: the tiny hands
Were clasp'd together, and the face bent down,
As resting on the pillow—not like this,—
So stiff, so cold, so utterly alone.