 | Short poems for short people |  |
BROTHER WILLY.
White little hands, where the white little roses
Rest, looking not more white,
Lids that some strange long slumber closes
Over the soft eyes' light;
Lips that seem done with smiles or sighing,
Brow that the still hair screens,—
Do you all mean death? But I stand here trying
To puzzle out what death means.
Rest, looking not more white,
Lids that some strange long slumber closes
Over the soft eyes' light;
Lips that seem done with smiles or sighing,
Brow that the still hair screens,—
Do you all mean death? But I stand here trying
To puzzle out what death means.
45
Brother Willy is dead, they have told me—
Cannot laugh loud any more—
Cannot put forth pretty arms and fold me
Close to his pinafore—
Cannot be mirthful and naughty and fearless—
Cannot kiss great kisses, too.
Ah, brother Willy, such thoughts would be cheerless
If I chose to think them of you!
Cannot laugh loud any more—
Cannot put forth pretty arms and fold me
Close to his pinafore—
Cannot be mirthful and naughty and fearless—
Cannot kiss great kisses, too.
Ah, brother Willy, such thoughts would be cheerless
If I chose to think them of you!
Pshaw! I won't think them. He 's not even sleeping;
He always was full of wild tricks.
Don't I remember the day he spent keeping
Hidden among the hay-ricks?
No, brother Willy, you cannot deceive me,
Playing asleep as you are.
Open your eyes like a man; and, believe me,
You'll just delight poor Mamma.
He always was full of wild tricks.
Don't I remember the day he spent keeping
Hidden among the hay-ricks?
No, brother Willy, you cannot deceive me,
Playing asleep as you are.
Open your eyes like a man; and, believe me,
You'll just delight poor Mamma.
| Short poems for short people | |