Poem by Henry Austin Dobson

The Cradle

HOW steadfastly she 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. 

1. On the Future of Poetry
2. When Burbadge Played
3. Incognita
4. The Forgotten Grave
5. The Last Proof

Frederick Locker-Lampson The Cradle ("Aye, here is your cradle! Why surely, my Jenny")

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