'Tis Christmas, and we gaze with downbent head On something that the post has brought too late To reach thee, Mimma, through the narrow gate, From one that did not know that thou art dead; A picture book, to play with on thy bed; And we, who should have heard thee laugh and prate So busily, sit here at war with Fate, And turn the pages silently instead. Oh, that I knew thee playing 'neath God's eyes, With the small souls of all the dewy flowers That strewed thy grave, and died at Autumn's breath; Or with the phantom of the doll that lies Beside thee for Eternity's long hours, In the dim nursery that men call Death! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SAILING BEYOND SEAS (OLD STYLE) by JEAN INGELOW THE REAR-GUARD by SIEGFRIED SASSOON INDEPENDENCE by HENRY DAVID THOREAU ODES: BOOK 2: ODE 10. TO THOMAS EDWARDS, ON ... POPE'S WORKS by MARK AKENSIDE LINES FOR THE HOUR by HAMILTON FISH ARMSTRONG THE FIRST GRAY HAIR by THOMAS HAYNES BAYLY OXFORD IN WAR-TIME by LAURENCE BINYON HINC LACHRIMAE; OR THE AUTHOR TO AURORA: 30 by WILLIAM BOSWORTH |