HE for whom the world was made Cannot lift his heavy head, All its pretty curls puffed out, Burnt with fevers, parched with drought. He, the tyrant, whimsical, With the round world for his ball, In a dreadful patience lies, Old since yesterday and wise. Like a martyr on the rack Smiles, his soft lips burnt to black, While the fever still devours His small body, sweet as flowers. Dreadful patience like a sword Stabs his mother's heart, dear Lord: Make him naughty, wild and gay, As he was but yesterday! Little services he pays With his kisses and his praise, While his eyes ask pardon still That he's troublesome and ill. He lies smiling, with a fire In his cheeks blown high and higher, By the wind of fever fanned. Lord, his kisses on my hand! Give me back my boy, I pray, Turbulent, of yesterday: Not this angel, like a sword In his mother's heart, dear Lord. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...NIGHT AND DAY: 4 by ISAAC ROSENBERG THE FIRST SNOWFALL by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL ODE ON SOLITUDE (FINAL PRINTED VERSION) by ALEXANDER POPE THE MASK OF ANARCHY; WRITTEN ON OCCASION OF MASSACRE AT MANCHESTER by PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY IN MEMORIAM (EASTER 1915) by PHILIP EDWARD THOMAS |