The hand that rocked his cradle once Lies buried with his father's rings; Yet in his cradle still lives he – He rocks it by himself, and sings. He knows no heaviness at heart, He cannot feel his body's old; The cradle that his mother rocked Is still his joy, and all his world. All by himself he rocks and sings – Until he makes old Death at last Measure him in his cradle for A coffin to contain his dust. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DEATH OF SLAVERY by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT TO SAN FRANCISCO by SAMUEL JOHN ALEXANDER RETURN by KENNETH SLADE ALLING THE RANTIN DOG THE DADDIE O'T by ROBERT BURNS ELEGY ON MR. WILLIAM SMITH: MR. SMITH IS DEAD by THOMAS CHATTERTON |