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THE LITTLE STOCKINGS.
Oh, you whose little hands reach no more
Towards his grey, kind beard in their dimpled play,
Whose little feet passed through the great, dim Door,
With never a step nor a sound, away:
Towards his grey, kind beard in their dimpled play,
Whose little feet passed through the great, dim Door,
With never a step nor a sound, away:
Have you found Another, who lights with love
His Birthday Tree for your charméd eyes?
Do you see in its branches the snow-white Dove?
Is it fair with the flowering fruit of the skies?
His Birthday Tree for your charméd eyes?
Do you see in its branches the snow-white Dove?
Is it fair with the flowering fruit of the skies?
