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 longingly she'd hung on it! —
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.
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.
He came at last, the tiny guest,
Ere bleak December fled;
That rosy nest he never prest...
Her coffin was his bed.
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