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Grief fills the room up of my absent child,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me,
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form:
Then have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well; had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort than you do.
I will not keep this form upon my head
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O Lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrows’ cure!

No one who has had to face the loss of a child can read those lines and maintain his composure.
Truly, the loss of a young one must rank as the most tragic of all the ill-fortune one can face.
Its like God hitting below the belt.

The natural order of things is the “death of fathers”. But when the unnatural occurs, one gets shell-shocked.
No words can assuage the grief of that bereavement.
Nothing can give comfort. Nothing can relieve the pain of that loss.
Nothing.