TREASURED TOKENS.
135
The soft curls clinging about her browAre wearing a colder covering now,—Are lying in deeper and sadder shadeThan ever a little white bonnet has made.A scarlet moth-eaten worsted ball,The head of a quaint old rubber doll.
A broken cup, with a rim of blue;A saucer, tarnished and broken too;A faded ribbon, a small white shell,Have each a tale of her life to tell.The earth is cold and the grave is deep,And my baby lies there fast asleep,Never to break from her dreamless rest,Nor waken again upon my breast.
Never to open her sweet blue eyesThis side of the gates of ParadiseAnd I kneel here on the chamber floorAnd tearfully gaze on the clothes she wore;Softly kissing the little worn shoe,Tenderly touching the ribbons of blue;Till time and place and the drifted yearsAre swept aside in a storm of tears.
