A hearse all draped in mourning,
With white plumes overhead,
Bearing a little coffin--
Somebody's baby's dead.
Upon the velvet cover
Some hand has placed a wreath,
White as the waxen features
Of the baby that lies beneath.
Out in the graveyard making
A rest for a shining head,
Somebody's heart is breaking,
Somebody's baby's dead.
Over a baby's coffin,
Heaping a mound of clay,
Somebody's hopes are buried
In that little grave to-day.
Somebody's home is dreary,
Somebody's sunshine fled,
Somebody's sad and weary,
Somebody's baby's dead.
Why Wallace Stevens’ Poetry is the Ultimate Guide to Mindful Living and the Antidote to the AI Era
Although he appeared as a poet relatively late in his career, the author left...
