Songs of Childhood
Our Little Martha
From porch a little girl I see,
Her dress cut short and up to knee,
With little feet so clean and white,
She treads the verdure soft and bright.
With sparkling eye and sprightly face,
She seems a miniature of grace.
Her silken hair is cut all round;
A pinkish bow on top is found;
Her dimpled hand a posy brings;
In childish glee she sweetly sings.
For fresh sweet peas she scours the land,
And brings them in for grandpa's stand:
"These are for you, my grandpa dear,
Wet with the dew as with a tear!"
With little kitten black and white,
She gently plays from morn till night;
Her merry voice, with prattling word,
In song and story oft is heard.
In downy bed, so white and neat,
Her doll she tucks for slumbers sweet;
And in the morn, ere sun is up,
Wee mama brings a buttercup!
Her dress cut short and up to knee,
With little feet so clean and white,
She treads the verdure soft and bright.
With sparkling eye and sprightly face,
She seems a miniature of grace.
Her silken hair is cut all round;
A pinkish bow on top is found;
Her dimpled hand a posy brings;
In childish glee she sweetly sings.
For fresh sweet peas she scours the land,
And brings them in for grandpa's stand:
"These are for you, my grandpa dear,
Wet with the dew as with a tear!"
With little kitten black and white,
She gently plays from morn till night;
Her merry voice, with prattling word,
In song and story oft is heard.
In downy bed, so white and neat,
Her doll she tucks for slumbers sweet;
And in the morn, ere sun is up,
Wee mama brings a buttercup!
A brief six years with us she's stayed,
And with her simple trinkets played.
She brings the sweets which Nature gave:
"These for my mama; this, her grave!"
Hail, childish love, thou power benign!
Who can reveal thy depths divine?
Not saint nor sage with wisdom blest
Can sound the love in infant breast.
A mother's love was hers one day,
A mother's love, sublime in sway.
O Fate, what arrows hast thou Hung?
Bereft of love, so young, so young!
And with her simple trinkets played.
She brings the sweets which Nature gave:
"These for my mama; this, her grave!"
Hail, childish love, thou power benign!
Who can reveal thy depths divine?
Not saint nor sage with wisdom blest
Can sound the love in infant breast.
A mother's love was hers one day,
A mother's love, sublime in sway.
O Fate, what arrows hast thou Hung?
Bereft of love, so young, so young!
1916
On the Tragic Death of Martha's Song-Bird
This little bird became strangled by a single hair, and was found suspended by it—dead.
O, my little song-bird,
How sad thy early fate!
A songless little bird-home,
A songless little mate!
How sad thy early fate!
A songless little bird-home,
A songless little mate!
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