Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Patter of Little Feet
The Patter of Little Feet.
Up with the sun in the morning,
Away to the garden he hies,
To see if the sleeping blossoms
Have begun to open their eyes,
Running a race with the wind,
With a step as light and fleet,
Under my window I hear
The patter of little feet.
Now to the brook he wanders,
In swift and noiseless flight,
Splashing the sparkling ripples
Like a fairy water-sprite.
No sand under fabled river
Has gleams like his golden hair;
No pearly sea-shell is fairer
Than his slender ankles bare;
Nor the rosiest stem of coral,
That blushes in ocean's bed,
Is sweet as the flash that follows
Our darling's airy tread.
From a broad window my neighbour,
Looks down on our little cot,
And watches the "poor man's blessing"—
I cannot envy his lot.
He has pictures, books, and music,
Bright fountains, and noble trees,
Rare store of blossoming roses,
Birds from beyond the seas;
But never does childish laughter
His homeward footsteps greet;
His stately halls ne'er echo
To the tread of innocent feet;
This child is our "speaking picture,"
A birdling that chatters and sings,
Sometimes a sleeping cherub,
(Our other one has wings.)
His heart is a charmed casket,
Full of all that's cunning and sweet,
And no harpstring holds such music
As follows his twinkling feet.
When the glory of sunset opens
The highway by angels trod,
And seems to unbar the city
Whose builder and maker is God;
Close to the crystal portal,
I see by the gates of pearl,
The eyes of our other angel—
A twin-born little girl.
And I asked to be taught and directed
To guide his footsteps aright;
So to live that I may be ready
To walk in sandals of light,
And hear, amid songs of welcome,
From messengers trusty and fleet,
On the starry floor of heaven,
The patter of little feet.
Away to the garden he hies,
To see if the sleeping blossoms
Have begun to open their eyes,
Running a race with the wind,
With a step as light and fleet,
Under my window I hear
The patter of little feet.
Now to the brook he wanders,
In swift and noiseless flight,
Splashing the sparkling ripples
Like a fairy water-sprite.
No sand under fabled river
Has gleams like his golden hair;
No pearly sea-shell is fairer
Than his slender ankles bare;
Nor the rosiest stem of coral,
That blushes in ocean's bed,
Is sweet as the flash that follows
Our darling's airy tread.
From a broad window my neighbour,
Looks down on our little cot,
And watches the "poor man's blessing"—
I cannot envy his lot.
He has pictures, books, and music,
Bright fountains, and noble trees,
Rare store of blossoming roses,
Birds from beyond the seas;
But never does childish laughter
His homeward footsteps greet;
His stately halls ne'er echo
To the tread of innocent feet;
This child is our "speaking picture,"
A birdling that chatters and sings,
Sometimes a sleeping cherub,
(Our other one has wings.)
His heart is a charmed casket,
Full of all that's cunning and sweet,
And no harpstring holds such music
As follows his twinkling feet.
When the glory of sunset opens
The highway by angels trod,
And seems to unbar the city
Whose builder and maker is God;
Close to the crystal portal,
I see by the gates of pearl,
The eyes of our other angel—
A twin-born little girl.
And I asked to be taught and directed
To guide his footsteps aright;
So to live that I may be ready
To walk in sandals of light,
And hear, amid songs of welcome,
From messengers trusty and fleet,
On the starry floor of heaven,
The patter of little feet.