Poems (Gould, 1833)/The Playthings
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!
"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!"