Mimma Bella - Part 10

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'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 who 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.

O 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!