Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Patter of Little Feet

The Patter of Little Feet.

Up with the sun in the morning, Away to the garden he hies,To see if the sleeping blossoms Have begun to open their eyes,Running a race with the wind, With a step as light and fleet,Under my window I hear The patter of little feet.Now to the brook he wanders, In swift and noiseless flight,Splashing the sparkling ripples Like a fairy water-sprite. No sand under fabled river Has gleams like his golden hair;No pearly sea-shell is fairer Than his slender ankles bare;Nor the rosiest stem of coral, That blushes in ocean's bed,Is sweet as the flash that follows Our darling's airy tread.From a broad window my neighbour, Looks down on our little cot,And watches the "poor man's blessing"— I cannot envy his lot.He has pictures, books, and music, Bright fountains, and noble trees,Rare store of blossoming roses, Birds from beyond the seas;But never does childish laughter His homeward footsteps greet;His stately halls ne'er echo To the tread of innocent feet;This child is our "speaking picture," A birdling that chatters and sings,Sometimes a sleeping cherub, (Our other one has wings.)His heart is a charmed casket, Full of all that's cunning and sweet,And no harpstring holds such music As follows his twinkling feet.When the glory of sunset opens The highway by angels trod,And seems to unbar the city Whose builder and maker is God;Close to the crystal portal, I see by the gates of pearl,The eyes of our other angel— A twin-born little girl.And I asked to be taught and directed To guide his footsteps aright;So to live that I may be ready To walk in sandals of light,And hear, amid songs of welcome, From messengers trusty and fleet,On the starry floor of heaven, The patter of little feet.