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The Dead Child.
by Charles Hamilton MusgroveLife to her was a perfect flower,
And every petal a jeweled hour,
Till all at once--we know not why--
God sent a frost from His clear blue sky.
Life to her was a fairy rune;
Her light feet tripped to the lilting tune,
Till all at once--we know not why--
God stopped th' enchanting melody.
Life to her was a picture book
That her glad eyes searched with eager look
Till all at once--we know not why--
God put the wondrous volume by.