'Lie low, and thou shalt have good rest, my child,'
Spake his fond mother, as she smooth'd his bed;
The long-enduring sufferer meekly smil'd.
At morn, his corpse was there, his spirit fled!
And so, indeed, the patient child found rest,
His dust with dust, his soul with angels blest!
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem