![]() | A book of Bristol sonnets | ![]() |
45
“LITTLE JOHNNY,”
AT THE CRIPPLES' HOME.
Hard was the fate that rapt thee down to hell!But Proserpine, though thou didst lose the day,
Thy hands were free for flowers upon thy way,
Dark meadows bloomed with spiky asphodel!
This orphan child a harder fate befell!
The cruel engine snatched his arms away,
But left behind strong passion for his play
With flowers he might not gather in the dell!
Bright little bare-foot, though thy limbs were torn,
Thy love was quickened at thy body's core.
Type of the chains God's armies here have worn!
Hope for the agèd warriors gone before!
Symbol thou art to those, who, Spirit-born,
Will pluck White Lilies on the Further Shore!
![]() | A book of Bristol sonnets | ![]() |