 | Collected poems |  |
147
THE CRADLE
How steadfastly she'd worked at it!
How lovingly had drest
With all her would-be-mother's wit
That little rosy nest!
How lovingly had drest
With all her would-be-mother's wit
That little rosy nest!
How longingly she'd hung on it!—
It sometimes seemed, she said,
There lay beneath its coverlet
A little sleeping head.
It sometimes seemed, she said,
There lay beneath its coverlet
A little sleeping head.
He came at last, the tiny guest,
Ere bleak December fled;
That rosy nest he never prest . . .
Her coffin was his bed.
Ere bleak December fled;
That rosy nest he never prest . . .
Her coffin was his bed.
| Collected poems | |