Like leaves the little hands were tossed and thrown,
And on her cheek the rose of fever was o’erblown!
The storm was done. The day threw off its shroud—
(’Twas Christmas Eve—till then by all forgot),
And suddenly, across a scarp of cloud
One crimson flame, a parting sunbeam shot.
It reached Annette upon the low, white cot,
It touched our mother’s face, Madonna-mild.
With dreaming eyes that saw us, yet saw not,
Petite Annette threw out her hand and smiled: