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Poem by Henry Austin Dobson

The Cradle

HOW steadfastly she worked at it!
How lovingly had drest
With all her would-be-mothers 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

Henry Austin Dobson's other poems:
  1. On a Nankin Plate
  2. The Passionate Printer to His Love
  3. For a Copy of Theocritus
  4. On the Future of Poetry
  5. Incognita

Poems of the other poets with the same name:

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

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