'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...THE AWAKENING RIVER by KATHERINE MANSFIELD 23RD STREET RUNS INTO HEAVEN by KENNETH PATCHEN TWO SONGS FROM THE PERSIAN: 2 by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH JEFFERSON DAVIS by WALKER MERIWETHER BELL THE FOREST POOL by GRACE BLAINE TO THE PRESIDENT OF MAGDALEN COLLEGE, OXFORD by ROBERT SEYMOUR BRIDGES THE DREAM MAID (SUGGESTED BY GENE STRATTON PORTER'S 'THE HARVESTER') by HENRY CHAPPELL |