Emblems of the Passing World

The rain of gifts in which the child has grown
Can be deduced from her small bright medallion,
Her brand-new shoes, her black dress gay with braid,
But most from the instinctive way she’s laid
Her hands contentedly across her lap,
Confident she won’t need to hit or grab
To get the good things life has promised her.
How could she know it’s dangerous to wear
A smile so merry and self-satisfied,
When all her life has been arranged to hide
The possibility of nemesis
And put off the discovery of loss?
Who could rebuke her when she acts as if
She thought she were herself the greatest gift?