Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle <br /> The rude hand of Progress has thrust it aside. <br />No more to its motion o’er sleep’s fairy ocean, <br /> Our play-weary wayfarers peacefully glide. <br /> <br />No more by the rhythm of slow-moving rocker, <br /> Their sweet dreamy fancies are fostered and fed; <br />No more to low singing the cradle goes swinging – <br /> The child of this era is put into bed. <br /> <br />Good-bye to the cradle, the dear wooden cradle, <br /> It lent to the twilight a strange, subtle charm; <br />When bees left the clover, when play-time was over, <br /> How safe seemed this shelter from danger or harm. <br /> <br />How soft seemed the pillow, how distant the ceiling, <br /> How weird were the voices that whispered around, <br />What dreams would come flocking, as rocking and rocking, <br /> We floated away into slumber profound. <br /> <br />Good-bye to the cradle, the old wooden cradle, <br /> The babe of to-day does not know it by sight. <br />When day leaves the border, with system and order, <br /> The child goes to bed and we put out the light. <br /> <br />I bow to Progression and ask no concession, <br /> Though strewn be her pathway with wrecks of the past; <br />So off wit old lumber, that sweet ark of slumber, <br /> The old wooden cradle, is ruthlessly cast.<br /><br />Ella Wheeler Wilcox<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-wooden-cradle/
