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My little firstborn I never held
In a snow white box was laid.

No lullabies were ever sung;
No baby games were played.

Beneath the burning August sun
She was laid beneath the sod,
A small, sweet soul commended
To the loving arms of God.

I wanted something I could see
To keep just for a memory,
And lovely, fresh, belying death,
They brought pink rosebuds and baby’s breath.

©2010 Carol Morfitt

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