SHE lies on that white breast she loves, and well Studies that mother-face, which is so wise: Whose rose and primrose heaven unchangeable Coys on her smile, spring-sunlight-sweet. She lies Awake, alone, wrapt all in wool, and cold And burning; light glares down, a roseless -- Hark! Who comes? she fights to gaze, and half has rolled Her hurt head round, when there is nought but dark. She lies in state; the old green looking-glass Reflects the baby-carriage, where half-hid A white box holds the joy that is as grass; A dull plant droops its dusk. One lifts the lid, Meets the small pearl face, the dark peering eyes, So disenchanted and so sadly wise. |