by: Edgar Fawcett (1847-1904)
- OUR cosey
crib is in the corner yet;
- I sit and watch it, just as day is dead.
- You cannot press again, my vanished pet,
- Its pillow with your drowsy golden head.
- You cannot reach plump arms to get my kiss,
- Or dart about with rosy, naked feet,
- Babbling soft syllables of that and this,
- A tiny night-gowned fairy, blithe and sweet.
- Once and for all you have lain down to rest,
- Not to rise up because of birds or beams,--
- Once and for all, with white flowers on your breast,
- To slumber coldly and to dream no dreams.
- Empty the home where, frolicsome and fair,
- Your precious presence made so bright a part;
- Empty your little crib, your clothes, your chair,
- But emptiest of all your mothers heart!
POEMS BY EDGAR FAWCETT
"Empty" is reprinted from
The Atlantic Monthly, vol. 30, issue 182 (December 1872).