The Child Dying
Unfriendly friendly universe,
I pack your stars into my purse,
And bid you so farewell.
That I can leave you, quite go out,
Go out, go out beyond all doubt,
My father says, is the miracle.
You are so great, and I so small:
I am nothing, you are all:
Being nothing, I can take this way.
Oh I need neither rise nor fall,
For when I do not move at all
I shall be out of all your day.
It's said some memory will remain
In the other place, grass in the rain,
Light on the land, sun on the sea,
A flitting grace, a phantom face,
But the world is out. There is not place
Where it and its ghost can ever be.
Father, father, I dread this air
Blown from the far side of despair
The cold cold corner. What house, what hold,
What hand is there? I look and see
And the great round world grows weak and old.
Hold my hand, oh hold it fast-
I am changing! - until at last
My hand in yours no more will change,
Though yours change on. You here, I there,
So hand in hand, twin-leafed despair -
I did not know death was so strange.
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Comments about this poem (The Child Dying by Edwin Muir )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
Harold Hart Crane
(21 July 1899 – 27 April 1932)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(25 November 1890 – 1 April 1918)
(30 December 1865 – 18 January 1936)
(6 January 1878 – 22 July 1967)
(1886 - 1967)
(7 May 1861 – 7 August 1941)
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