Victor Hugo was of course born in a time when it was common for your children to die before you.
Indeed, his first child, Leopold, died in infancy and the next, a daughter, was called Leopoldine.
She drowned with her husband in a boating accident when she was a young woman, and Hugo's grief was so profound that he, one of the most prolific published writers of his time, did not publish again for years, although he was writing still.
So again, just because it was common doesn't mean the loss was felt less keenly.
Of the many things he wrote for Leopoldine was this:
Demain, dès l'aube
Demain, dès l'aube, à l'heure où blanchit la campagne,
Je partirai. Vois-tu, je sais que tu m'attends.
J'irai par la forêt, j'irai par la montagne.
Je ne puis demeurer loin de toi plus longtemps.
Je marcherai les yeux fixés sur mes pensées,
Sans rien voir au dehors, sans entendre aucun bruit,
Seul, inconnu, le dos courbé, les mains croisées,
Triste, et le jour pour moi sera comme la nuit.
Je ne regarderai ni l'or du soir qui tombe,
Ni les voiles au loin descendant vers Harfleur,
Et quand j'arriverai, je mettrai sur ta tombe
Un bouquet de houx vert et de bruyère en fleur.
Tomorrow, beginning at dawn, at the time when the countryside pales,
I will leave. You see, I know that you are waiting for me.
I will go through the forest, I will go through the mountain.
I cannot remain far from you any longer.
I will walk with my eyes fixed on my thoughts,
seeing nothing else, hearing no noise,
alone, unknown, my back hunched over, my hands crossed,
sad, and the day for me will be like night.
I will not see the gold of the evening falling,
nor the sails in the distance going down toward Harfleur,
and when I arrive, I will lay on your tomb
a bouquet of green holly and of heather in bloom.