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Henry Austin Dobson (Генри Остин Добсон)


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. 



Henry Austin Dobson's other poems:
  1. On a Nankin Plate
  2. The Forgotten Grave
  3. The Passionate Printer to His Love
  4. The Happy Printer
  5. O Fons Bandusae


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