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1772–1834

EPITAPH ON AN INFANT

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Its balmy lips the infant blest Relaxing from its Mother's breast, How sweet it heaves the happy sigh Of innocent satiety!

And such my Infant's latest sigh! Oh tell, rude stone! the passer by, That here the pretty babe doth lie, Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.

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EPITAPH ON AN INFANT · Samuel Taylor Coleridge · Poetry Cove