Charles Sangster (1822–1893)

HER little shoes! we sit and muse

Upon the dainty feet that wore them;

By day and night our souls’ delight

Is just to dream and ponder o’er them.

We hear them patter on the floor,

In either hand a toy or rattle;

And what speaks to our hearts the more—

Her first sweet words of infant prattle.

I see the face so fair, and trace

The dark-blue eye that flashed so clearly;

The rose-bud lips, the finger-tips

She learned to kiss—oh, far too dearly

The pearly hands turned up to mine,

The tiny arms my neck caressing;

Her smile, that made our life divine,

Her silvery laugh—her kiss, a blessing.

Her winning ways, that made the days

Elysian in their grace so tender,

Through which Love’s child our souls beguiled

For seeming ages starred with splendour:

No wonder that the angel-heirs

Did win our darling life’s-joy from us,

For she was theirs—not all our prayers

Could keep her from the Land of Promise.