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. When Burbadge Played
2. For a Copy of Theocritus
3. Knickerbocker
4. On the Future of Poetry
5. O Fons Bandusae

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

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