Streameth the sunset through the pane,
Glitter the drops of summer-rain,
That, soothing, fall in sparkling shower
Upon the couching Passion-flower.
And round the sill the roses peep,
Their heavy petals ripe for sleep;
And through the half-drawn blind I see
The white clematis spy at me.
As pensive, but not sad, I muse
Upon—a tiny pair of shoes!
A tiny white-laced frock. Ah! well,
I love the pretty “bagatelle!”
A cradle-couch beside my knee,
A tiny home of mystery;
The little fingers in their clasp
The coverlid unconscious grasp.
As yet unwaked, the soul within
Her Chrysalis lies slumbering.
The first-blush of that opening rose—
Who dreams what in the casket grows?
A solemn trust!—and yet how dear!
Ah! but for children blooming here,
This earth a joyless earth would be,
And life itself a vacancy!
’Tis little fingers mould us all,
’Tis little voices heavenward call,
’Tis little hearts that Heaven prepare,
And little angels lead us there!
Astley H. Baldwin.