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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. When Burbadge Played
  2. For a Copy of Theocritus
  3. The Last Proof
  4. O Fons Bandusae
  5. Knickerbocker


Poems of another poets with the same name (Стихотворения других поэтов с таким же названием):

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

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