The poem
Blest in death and life beyond man's guessing Little children live and die, possest Still of grace that keeps them past expressing Blest.
Each least chirp that rings from every nest, Each least touch of flower-soft fingers pressing Aught that yearns and trembles to be prest,
Each least glance, gives gifts of grace, redressing Grief's worst wrongs: each mother's nurturing breast Feeds a flower of bliss, beyond all blessing Blest.