Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Little Shoes and Stockings
Little Shoes and Stockings.
Little shoes and stockings!
What a tale ye speak,
Of the swollen eyelid,
And the tear-wet cheek;
Of the nightly vigil,
And the daily prayer;
Of the buried darling,
Present everywhere!
What a tale ye speak,
Of the swollen eyelid,
And the tear-wet cheek;
Of the nightly vigil,
And the daily prayer;
Of the buried darling,
Present everywhere!
Brightly plaided stockings,
Of the finest wool;
Rounded feet and dainty,
Each a stocking full;
Tiny shoes of crimson,
Shoes that nevermore
Will awaken echoes
From the toy-strewn floor.
Of the finest wool;
Rounded feet and dainty,
Each a stocking full;
Tiny shoes of crimson,
Shoes that nevermore
Will awaken echoes
From the toy-strewn floor.
Not the wealth of Indies
Could your worth eclipse,
Priceless little treasures,
Pressed to whitened lips;
As the mother nurses,
From the world apart,
Leaning on the arrow,
That has pierced her heart.
Could your worth eclipse,
Priceless little treasures,
Pressed to whitened lips;
As the mother nurses,
From the world apart,
Leaning on the arrow,
That has pierced her heart.
Head of flaxen ringlets;
Eyes of heaven's blue;
Parted mouth—a rosebud—
Pearls, just peeping through;
Soft arms, softly twining
Round her neck at eve;—
Little shoes and stockings,
These the dreams ye weave.
Eyes of heaven's blue;
Parted mouth—a rosebud—
Pearls, just peeping through;
Soft arms, softly twining
Round her neck at eve;—
Little shoes and stockings,
These the dreams ye weave.
Weave her yet another,
Of the world of bliss,—
Let the stricken mother
Turn away from this;
Bid her dream believing
Little feet await,
Watching for her passing
Through the pearly gate.
Of the world of bliss,—
Let the stricken mother
Turn away from this;
Bid her dream believing
Little feet await,
Watching for her passing
Through the pearly gate.