Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/The Funeral of a Doll
THE FUNERAL OF A DOLL.
They used to call her Little Nell, In memory of that lovely childWhose story each had learned to tell. She, too, was slight and still and mild, Blue-eyed and sweet; she always smiled,And never troubled any oneUntil her pretty life was done.And so they tolled a tiny bell That made a wailing fine and faint,As fairies ring, and all was well. Then she became a waxen saint.
Her funeral it was small and sad. Some birds sang bird-hymns in the air.The humming-bee seemed hardly glad, Spite of the honey everywhere. The very sunshine seemed to wearSome thought of death, caught in its goldThat made it waver wan and cold.Then, with what broken voice he had, The preacher slowly murmured on(With many warnings to the bad) The virtues of the darling gone.
A paper coffin rosily-lined Had Little Nell. There, drest in white,With buds about her, she reclined, A very fair and piteous sight— Enough to make one sorry, quite.And, when at last the lid was shutUnder white flowers, I fancied———butNo matter. When I heard the wind Scatter Spring-rain that night acrossThe doll's wee grave, with tears half-blind One child's heart felt a grievous loss,
"It was a funeral, Mama. Oh, Poor Little Nell is dead, is dead!How dark!—and do you hear it blow? She is afraid." And as she said These sobbing words, she laid her headBetween her hands, and whispered: "HereHer bed is made, the precious dear—She cannot sleep in it, I know. And there is no one left to wearHer pretty clothes. Where did she go? . . . See, this poor ribbon tied her hair!"