C.D. Warner, et al., comp.
The Library of the World’s Best Literature. An Anthology in Thirty Volumes. 1917.
Gerald Massey (1828–1907)
Little Willie
P
With his many pretty wiles;
Worlds of wisdom in his looks,
And quaint, quiet smiles;
Hair of amber, touched with
Gold of heaven so brave;
All lying darkly hid
In a workhouse grave.
Fair and funny fellow! he
Sprang like a lily
From the dirt of poverty.
Poor little Willie!
Not a friend was nigh,
When, from the cold world,
He crouched down to die.
Little Willie cried for bread;
In the night we wandered homeless,
Little Willie cried for bed.
Parted at the workhouse door,
Not a word we said:
Ah, so tired was poor Willie,
And so sweetly sleep the dead.
We laid him in the earth;
The world brought in the New Year,
On a tide of mirth.
But for lost little Willie
Not a tear we crave:
Cold and hunger cannot wake him
In his workhouse grave.
Felt it hard to part;
We loved him dutiful:
Down, down, poor heart!
The storms they may beat;
The winter winds may rave;
Little Willie feels not,
In his workhouse grave.
In the world he had no part;
On him stared the Gorgon-eye
Through which looks no heart.
Come to me, said Heaven;
And if Heaven will save,
Little matters though the door
Be a workhouse grave.