POEMS.
63
"A LITTLE WORN-OUT SHOE."
I AM holding in my fingers,
By the fireside's ruddy glow,
Something which is worn and faded
In the years of long ago.
By the fireside's ruddy glow,
Something which is worn and faded
In the years of long ago.
Tis a little shoe of leather,
Trodden down at heel—and yet,
There is still the tiny imprint
Of a foot I'll ne'er forget.
Trodden down at heel—and yet,
There is still the tiny imprint
Of a foot I'll ne'er forget.
And a hidden sorrow stealeth,
And a grief which doth not speak
Overwhelms me till the colour
Dieth out of lip and cheek.
And a grief which doth not speak
Overwhelms me till the colour
Dieth out of lip and cheek.
Once again two blue eyes beameth
And a hand steals into mine,
And a form doth nestle closely
In its tenderness divine.
And a hand steals into mine,
And a form doth nestle closely
In its tenderness divine.
And a childish ring of laughter
Wiles away my grief and tears,
Till again my heart seems living
In those pleasant far-off years.
Wiles away my grief and tears,
Till again my heart seems living
In those pleasant far-off years.
Seventeen summers long have flitted
Over bow'r and bird and tree,
Over bow'r and bird and tree,
