Classic Poem

Poor little Willie,
With his many pretty wiles;
Worlds of wisdom in his look,
And quaint, quiet smiles;
Hair of amber, touched with
Gold of Heaven so brave;
All lying darkly hid
In a workhouse grave.

You remember little Willie,
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 crouch'd down to die.

In the day we wander'd foodless
Little Willie cried for “bread”;
In the night we wander'd 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.

'Twas in the dead of winter
We laid him in the earth;
The world brought in the new year
On a tide of mirth.
But for the lost little Willie
Not a tear we crave;
Cold and hunger cannot wake him
In his workhouse grave.

We thought him beautiful,
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.

No room for little Willie
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.