What wast thou, little baby, that art dead -- A one day's blossom that the hoar-frost nips? A bee that's crushed, the first bright day it sips? A small dropped gem that in the earth we tread? Or cherub's smiling gold-encircled head, That Death from out Life's painted missal rips? Or murmured prayer that barely reached the lips? Or sonnet's fair first line -- the rest unsaid? Oh, 'tis not hard to find what thou wast like; The world is full of fair unfinished things That vanish like a dawn-admonished elf. Life teems with opening forms for Death to strike; The woods are full of unfledged broken wings; Enough for us, thou wast thy baby self. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...ON AN INTAGLIO HEAD OF MINERVA (1) by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH PARADISE by FREDERICK WILLIAM FABER AUSPEX by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL GHOST STARS by MADELEINE AARON TO MR. BOWRING ON HIS POETICAL TRANSLATIONS by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD |