C. I. Meade
You were young and they were singing you to sleep,
Rock-a-bye baby on the tree top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come baby
Cradle and all.
However it was fire that devoured the bough you were so carefully laid on and then your cradle.
You were only halfway down when your brother took you and held you for the rest of his life, even in his death.
But before that you leave him in pursuit of a patch of unsigned grass s