Statio Prima

Why do I make so much of Aber Fall? Four years ago My little boy was with me here, That's 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, You've seen those kings, yes, yes, Of course . . . and yet . . . the righteousness The . . . Never mind! he came With me to Aber Fall, That's all, that's all.