The hand that rocked his cradle once Lies buried with his father's rings; Yet in his cradle still lives he – He rocks it by himself, and sings. He knows no heaviness at heart, He cannot feel his body's old; The cradle that his mother rocked Is still his joy, and all his world. All by himself he rocks and sings – Until he makes old Death at last Measure him in his cradle for A coffin to contain his dust. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK; A TRUE STORY by ROBERT BURNS THE BIGLOW PAPERS. 2D SERIES. THE COURTIN' by JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL THE ENAMEL GIRL by GENEVIEVE TAGGARD THE FOUNDERS OF OHIO by WILLIAM HENRY VENABLE |