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A little shoe, a little glove-
Affection never waning-

The shattered idol of our love
Is all that is remaining!

Then does one chance, in fancy, hear,
Small feet in childish patter,
Tread soft as they a grave draw near,
And voices hush their chatter;
'Tis small and new; they pause in fear,
Beneath the gray church tower,

To consecrate it with a tear,

And deck it with a flower.

Who can predict the future, Kate-
Your fondest aspiration!

Who knows the solemn laws of fate,

That govern all creation?

Who knows what lot awaits your boy

Of happiness or sorrow?

Sufficient for to-day is joy,

Leave tears, Sweet, for to-morrow!

Joseph Ashby-Sterry [18

THE FIRSTBORN

So fair, so dear, so warm upon my bosom,
And in my hands the little rosy feet.

Sleep on, my little bird, my lamb, my blossom;
Sleep on, sleep on, my sweet.

What is it God hath given me to cherish,
This living, moving wonder which is mine—
Mine only? Leave it with me or I perish,
Dear Lord of love divine.

Dear Lord, 'tis wonderful beyond all wonder,
This tender miracle vouchsafed to me,
One with myself, yet just so far asunder
That I myself may see.

No Baby in the House

Flesh of my flesh, and yet so subtly linking
New selfs with old, all things that I have been
With present joys beyond my former thinking
And future things unseen.

There life began, and here it links with heaven,
The golden chain of years scarce dipped adown
From birth, ere once again a hold is given

And nearer to God's Throne.

Seen, held in arms and clasped around so tightly,—
My love, my bird, I will not let thee go.
Yet soon the little rosy feet must lightly
Go pattering to and fro.

Mine, Lord, all mine Thy gift and loving token.
Mine-yes or no, unseen its soul divine?

Mine by the chain of love with links unbroken,
Dear Saviour, Thine and mine.

John Arthur Goodchild [1851

NO BABY IN THE HOUSE

No baby in the house, I know,
'Tis far too nice and clean.
No toys, by careless fingers strewn,
Upon the floors are seen.

No finger-marks are on the panes,
No scratches on the chairs;
No wooden men set up in rows,
Or marshaled off in pairs;
No little stockings to be darned,
All ragged at the toes;
No pile of mending to be done,
Made up of baby-clothes;
No little troubles to be soothed;
No little hands to fold;

No grimy fingers to be washed;

No stories to be told;

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No tender kisses to be given;

No nicknames, "Dove" and "Mouse"; No merry frolics after tea,

No baby in the house!

Clara Dolliver [18

OUR WEE WHITE ROSE

From "The Mother's Idol Broken'

ALL in our marriage garden
Grew, smiling up to God,
A bonnier flower than ever

Sucked the green warmth of the sod; O, beautiful unfathomably

Its little life unfurled;

And crown of all things was our wee
White Rose of all the world.

From out a balmy bosom

Our bud of beauty grew;
It fed on smiles for sunshine,
On tears for daintier dew:
Aye nestling warm and tenderly,
Our leaves of love were curled
So close and close about our wee
White Rose of all the world.

With mystical faint fragrance
Our house of life she filled;
Revealed each hour some fairy tower
Where winged hopes might build!
We saw-though none like us might see-
Such precious promise pearled

Upon the petals of our wee

White Rose of all the world.

But evermore the halo

Of angel-light increased, Like the mystery of moonlight

That folds some fairy feast.

'Baby Sleeps"

Snow-white, snow-soft, snow-silently

Our darling bud uncurled,

And dropped in the grave-God's lap-our wee
White Rose of all the world.

Our Rose was but in blossom,
Our life was but in spring,
When down the solemn midnight
We heard the spirits sing,
"Another bud of infancy

With holy dews impearled!"
And in their hands they bore our wee
White Rose of all the world.

You scarce could think so small a thing
Could leave a loss so large;
Her little light such shadow fling
From dawn to sunset's marge.
In other springs our life may be
In bannered bloom unfurled,
But never, never match our wee
White Rose of all the world.

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Gerald Massey [1828-1907]

INTO THE WORLD AND OUT

INTO the world he looked with sweet surprise;
The children laughed so when they saw his eyes.

Into the world a rosy hand in doubt

He reached a pale hand took one rosebud out.

"And that was all-quite all!" No, surely! But The children cried so when his eyes were shut. Sarah M. B. Piatt [1836

"BABY SLEEPS"

She is not dead, but sleepeth.-LUKE Viii. 52.

THE baby wept;

The mother took it from the nurse's arms,

And hushed its fears, and soothed its vain alarms,
And baby slept.

Again it weeps,

And God doth take it from the mother's arms,

From present griefs, and future unknown harms, And baby sleeps.

Samuel Hinds [1793-1872]

BABY BELL

I

HAVE you not heard the poets tell

How came the dainty Baby Bell
Into this world of ours?

The gates of heaven were left ajar:
With folded hands and dreamy eyes,
Wandering out of Paradise,

She saw this planet, like a star,

Hung in the glistening depths of even—
Its bridges, running to and fro,
O'er which the white-winged Angels go,
Bearing the holy Dead to heaven.

She touched a bridge of flowers—those feet,
So light they did not bend the bells
Of the celestial asphodels,

They fell like dew upon the flowers:
Then all the air grew strangely sweet.
And thus came dainty Baby Bell
Into this world of ours.

II

She came and brought delicious May;
The swallows built beneath the eaves;

Like sunlight, in and out the leaves
The robins went, the livelong day;
The lily swung its noiseless bell;
And on the porch the slender vine
Held out its cups of fairy wine.
How tenderly the twilights fell!
Oh, earth was full of singing-birds
And opening springtide flowers,
When the dainty Baby Bell
Came to this world of ours.

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