 | Poems |  |
THE FIRST SHOES.
Wife, keep those shoes with the shape of his feet in them,
Restless, small feet, that we'd never have still;
Through all your years to come, visions how sweet in them,
Dreamings how priceless, your fancy will fill!
Treasure them; some dreams are more than all pleasures
Life's ever giving our hearts to enjoy;
Few things that ever you'll prize, wife, as treasures,
So dear will be as these shoes of our boy.
Restless, small feet, that we'd never have still;
Through all your years to come, visions how sweet in them,
Dreamings how priceless, your fancy will fill!
Treasure them; some dreams are more than all pleasures
Life's ever giving our hearts to enjoy;
Few things that ever you'll prize, wife, as treasures,
So dear will be as these shoes of our boy.
Worn is each little sole; blessed was the wearing
Smoothing them so—at which glad tears you wept,
Those wavering weak steps that caused you such caring,
Those tiny steps that our baby first stept;
Wife, to our hearts, what a joy beyond telling
Were those dear totterings, half boldness—half fear!
All the joy then that our proud hearts was swelling,
Whene'er we see them, with us will be here.
Smoothing them so—at which glad tears you wept,
Those wavering weak steps that caused you such caring,
Those tiny steps that our baby first stept;
Wife, to our hearts, what a joy beyond telling
Were those dear totterings, half boldness—half fear!
All the joy then that our proud hearts was swelling,
Whene'er we see them, with us will be here.
Bolder those small shoes were ere he outgrew them;
Firm was the foot-tread at last that they knew,
When mother's eyes to her stooping kiss drew them,
With that rapt gaze that still looked him to you;
Seeing them, ah, in the garden I've found him,
Busy and bustling as ant or as bee;
Glad as the butterfly flitting around him,
Babbles my baby again up to me.
Firm was the foot-tread at last that they knew,
When mother's eyes to her stooping kiss drew them,
With that rapt gaze that still looked him to you;
Seeing them, ah, in the garden I've found him,
Busy and bustling as ant or as bee;
Glad as the butterfly flitting around him,
Babbles my baby again up to me.
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Treasure them; brood o'er them; O how dear to you
Will those small memories in after years prove,
Should it be God's will, those eyes that so knew you
You in this life below no more can love.
Then shall the sight of these be a spell, raising
Up to your gaze again, dim through your tears,
That little lost form to gladden your gazing,
Bidding that small tongue again bless your ears.
Will those small memories in after years prove,
Should it be God's will, those eyes that so knew you
You in this life below no more can love.
Then shall the sight of these be a spell, raising
Up to your gaze again, dim through your tears,
That little lost form to gladden your gazing,
Bidding that small tongue again bless your ears.
Ah, if in years to come—O God, forbid it !—
We must with trembling and tears tell his name,
Fear his grown face, and half wish God had hid it
Cold in the coffin before it knew shame,
These shall be balm to the sorrows that wring you,
Over these, tears, not all sad, you shall rain,
These his dear baby face sinless shall bring you,
That you may love him all spotless again.
We must with trembling and tears tell his name,
Fear his grown face, and half wish God had hid it
Cold in the coffin before it knew shame,
These shall be balm to the sorrows that wring you,
Over these, tears, not all sad, you shall rain,
These his dear baby face sinless shall bring you,
That you may love him all spotless again.
Far be such thoughts from us; none such we're fearing
Ever, dear, for him, our darling—our joy;
God will his mother's prayers always be hearing,
Hearing his father's prayers, prayed for our boy.
But, O dear wife of mine, these shoes, we'll keep them;
Grown-up, he'll laugh at what he used to use;
Tears but of pride and joy only shall steep them,
When, a man, with us he sees his first shoes.
Ever, dear, for him, our darling—our joy;
God will his mother's prayers always be hearing,
Hearing his father's prayers, prayed for our boy.
But, O dear wife of mine, these shoes, we'll keep them;
Grown-up, he'll laugh at what he used to use;
Tears but of pride and joy only shall steep them,
When, a man, with us he sees his first shoes.
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