The Cradle

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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