Book 3 — Bereaved.

Let me come in where you sit weeping,—aye, Let me, who have not any child to die, Weep with you for the little one whose love I have known nothing of. The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used To kiss.—Such arms—such hands I never knew. May I not weep with you? Fain would I be of service—say some thing, Between the tears, that would be comforting,— But ah! so sadder than yourselves am I, Who have no child to die.