Poems (Piatt)/Volume 1/The Funeral of a Doll

by Sarah Piatt

THE FUNERAL OF A DOLL.

They used to call her Little Nell,
 In memory of that lovely child
Whose 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 one
Until 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 wear
Some thought of death, caught in its gold
That 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 shut
Under white flowers, I fancied———but
No matter. When I heard the wind
 Scatter Spring-rain that night across
The 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 head
Between her hands, and whispered: "Here
Her bed is made, the precious dear—
She cannot sleep in it, I know.
 And there is no one left to wear
Her pretty clothes. Where did she go?
 . . . See, this poor ribbon tied her hair!"