Statio Prima

Why do I make so much of Aber Fall?     Four years ago     My little boy was with me here,     Thats all,     He died next year:     He died just seven years old,     A very gentle child, yet bold,     Having no fear.     You have seen such?     They are not much?     No . . . no.     And yet he was a very righteous child,     Stood up for what was right,     Intolerant of wrong, Pure azure light     Was cisterned in his eyes;     We thought him wise     Beyond his years, so sweet and mild,     But strong     For justice, doing what he could,     Poor little soul, to make all children good.     I almost think, and yet I am to blame,     He was a different child from others;     He had three sisters and two brothers:     He seemed a little king:     Among the children, ah I tis a common thing,     Parents are all the same,     Youve seen those kings, yes, yes,     Of course . . . and yet . . . the righteousness     The . . . Never mind! he came     With me to Aber Fall,     Thats all, thats all.