Two little rough-worn, stubbed shoes
A plump, well-trodden pair;
With striped stockings thrust within,
Lie just beside my chair.
Of very homely fabric they,
A hole is in each toe,
They might have cost, when they were new,
Some fifty cents or so.
And yet this little, worn-out pair
Is richer far too me
Than all the jewelled sandals are
Of Eastern luxury.
This mottled leather, cracked with use,
Is satin in my sight;
These little tarnished buttons shine
With all a diamond's light.
Search through the wardrobe of the world!
You shall not find me there
So rarely made, so richly wrought,
So glorious a pair.
And why? Because they tell of her,
Now sound asleep above,
Whose form is moving beauty, and
Whose heart is beating love.
They tell me of her merry laugh;
Her rich, whole-hearted glee;
Her gentleness, her innocence,
And infant purity.
They tell me that her wavering steps
Will long demand my aid;
For the old road of human life
Is very roughly laid.
High hills and swift descents abound;
And, on so rude a way,
Feet that can wear these coverings
Would surely go astray.
Sweet little girl! be mine the task
Thy feeble steps to tend!
To be thy guide, thy counsellor,
Thy playmate and thy friend!
And when my steps shall faltering grow,
And thine be firm and strong,
Thy strength shell lead my tottering age
In cheerful peace along.