Up in the attic I found it, Far back in the corner it stood, Where the sunlight never entered -- A cradle of walnut wood. 'Twas loaded with castaway rubbish Covered with cobwebs and dust, Abandoned, forsaken and lonely, An walnut cradle that must Have been fashioned by my father (But certainly not for show You would think, could you only see it!) More than a century ago. 'Twas rudely made, and unvarnished, Yet it served its purpose well; Eleven babies it's cradled, Had it a voice it could tell. Four sisters and seven brothers, And I, the youngest have grown A tottering woman of eighty, And am left alone, alone. The others have quit their wand'rings, They all have "crossed the bar," Have met their Pilot, and anchored Safe in that Harbor afar. Oh, this cradle takes me backward, I seem to hear it rock As my mother sits beside it In her coarse and home-spun frock. I can hear her softly singing In those happy, golden days, A lullaby of dreamland, While she looks with tender gaze On her baby's closing eyelids, And with earnestness she prays To her Father up in Heaven For her baby's future days. Oh, form that first bent o'er this cradle, Hands that first rocked it to and fro, Oh, voice that sang and heart that prayed In that happy long ago; How I long, how I wish for you, How I long to hear that refrain Lulling me into dreamland Like a careless babe again. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE JOY OF THE HILLS by EDWIN MARKHAM THE PREACHER by JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER THE BRITISH PHILIPPIC by MARK AKENSIDE A DEDICATION by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE DEATH OF HAMPDEN by PAKENHAM THOMAS BEATTY WAR'S PEOPLE by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |