The Gifts

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I GIVE you Life, O child, a garden fair;
I give you Love, a rose that blossoms there--
I give a day to pluck it and to wear!

I give you Death, O child--a boon more great--
That, when your Rose has withered and 'tis late,
You may pass out and, smiling, close the gate!

© Isabel Ecclestone Mackay