HOW steadfastly she'd 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE COLOR SERGEANT by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SONGS OUT OF SORROW: REFUGE by SARA TEASDALE PENITENTIAL PSALM: 6. DOMINE NE IN FURORE by THOMAS WYATT ODE ON INDOLENCE by JOHN KEATS |