The Child

HENRY that art entombëd here,
That in this closure mak’st thy stay,
That here art sleeping bone and bone,
That here art till arising day
Flesh thee once more in thy old gear,
Let not this other Henry here,
This sweeting, this so lovely one,
This being bright that makes his play
In this thy plot, on this thy grass,
Let him not fret thee. Let him pass.
Pay thou no heed, oh, long asleep,
Oh, century-long sleeping one;
One hour and his play is done,
One lifetime and his life is past,
And he, too, quiet at the last
Will, as thou sleepest, take his sleep
While other Henry crow and creep.