24.06.2007, 18:42
Mimma Bella
I
What wast thou, little baby, that art dead--
A one-day's blossom that the hoar-frost nips?
A bee that's crusht, the first bright day it sips?
A small dropt 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.
I
What wast thou, little baby, that art dead--
A one-day's blossom that the hoar-frost nips?
A bee that's crusht, the first bright day it sips?
A small dropt 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.