fourteen

Child, you whom ill chance did rob from me
thy countenance ever in any moment to see;
what aspect denied me would I pay any fee
to gaze upon bewitched, you dangling from my knee?

Child, you whom ill chance did rob me dear
thy laughter in tumbling play ever to hear;
what angel keeps watch and to you holds near
to guard your spark against any black fear?

Child, you whom ill chance did rob me short
any time that was meant ours, now caught
within good earth, only now in soaring thought
that brilliance which life might have wrought.

Child?

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