 | Poems by Miss H. F. Gould |  |
94
THE PLAYTHINGS.
“Oh! mother, here's the very top,
That brother used to spin;
The vase with seeds I 've seen him drop
To call our robin in;
The line that held his pretty kite,
His bow, his cup and ball,
The slate on which he learned to write,
His feather, cap and all!”
That brother used to spin;
The vase with seeds I 've seen him drop
To call our robin in;
The line that held his pretty kite,
His bow, his cup and ball,
The slate on which he learned to write,
His feather, cap and all!”
“My dear, I 'd put the things away
Just where they were before:
Go, Anna, take him out to play,
And shut the closet door.
Sweet innocent! he little thinks
The slightest thought expressed,
Of him that 's lost, too deeply sinks
Within a mother's breast!”
Just where they were before:
Go, Anna, take him out to play,
And shut the closet door.
Sweet innocent! he little thinks
The slightest thought expressed,
Of him that 's lost, too deeply sinks
Within a mother's breast!”
| Poems by Miss H. F. Gould | |