My Lyrical Life Poems Old and New. By Gerald Massey |
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LITTLE WILLIE. |
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 | My Lyrical Life |  |
252
LITTLE WILLIE.
Poor little Willie,
With his many pretty wiles;
Worlds of wisdom in his look
And quaint, quiet smiles;
Hair of amber, touched with
Gold of heaven so brave;
All lying darkly hid
In a Workhouse Grave!
With his many pretty wiles;
Worlds of wisdom in his look
And quaint, quiet smiles;
Hair of amber, touched with
Gold of heaven so brave;
All lying darkly hid
In a Workhouse Grave!
In the day we wandered foodless,
Little Willie cried for bread!
In the night we wandered homeless,
Little Willie cried for bed.
Parted at the Workhouse door,
Not a word we said:
Ah, so tired was poor Willie,
And so sweetly sleep the dead.
Little Willie cried for bread!
In the night we wandered homeless,
Little Willie cried for bed.
Parted at the Workhouse door,
Not a word we said:
Ah, so tired was poor Willie,
And so sweetly sleep the dead.
You remember little Willie;
Such a funny fellow! he
Sprang like a lily
From the dirt of poverty.
Poor little Willie!
Not a friend was nigh,
When, from the cold world,
He crouched down to die.
Such a funny fellow! he
Sprang like a lily
From the dirt of poverty.
Poor little Willie!
Not a friend was nigh,
When, from the cold world,
He crouched down to die.
'Twas in the dead of winter
We laid him in the earth;
The world brought in the New Year,
Mocking us with mirth:
But, for lost little Willie,
Not a tear we crave;
Cold and Hunger cannot wake him,
In his Workhouse Grave.
We laid him in the earth;
The world brought in the New Year,
Mocking us with mirth:
253
Not a tear we crave;
Cold and Hunger cannot wake him,
In his Workhouse Grave.
We thought him beautiful,
Felt it hard to part;
We to him were dutiful;
Down, down, poor heart!
The storms they may beat;
The winter winds may rave;
Little Willie feels not
In his Workhouse Grave.
Felt it hard to part;
We to him were dutiful;
Down, down, poor heart!
The storms they may beat;
The winter winds may rave;
Little Willie feels not
In his Workhouse Grave.
No room for little Willie;
In the world he had no part;
On him stared the Gorgon-eye,
Through which looks no heart.
Come to me, said Heaven;
And, if Heaven will save,
We will grieve not, though the door
Was a Workhouse Grave.
In the world he had no part;
On him stared the Gorgon-eye,
Through which looks no heart.
Come to me, said Heaven;
And, if Heaven will save,
We will grieve not, though the door
Was a Workhouse Grave.
| My Lyrical Life | |