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...WINTER SLEEP by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS THE SPOUSE TO THE BELOVED by WILLIAM BALDWIN LINES TO BE SPOKEN BY THOMAS DENMAN.....WHEN FOUR YEARS OLD by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD AN INFANTRYMAN by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN EXTEMPORE LINES IN ANSWER TO A CARD by ROBERT BURNS |