Hid away in the corner I found it,
A little shoe worn out and old;
But dearer to me in my sorrow
Than all earth's treasures of gold.
Scarcely lost to the foot's soft imprint,
I can fancy its warmth still there
As I press it close, close to my bosom
And sob in my hopeless despair.
My arms are so useless and empty,
My heart is so hungry and sore,
My dear little golden-haired baby,
Will lie on my breast, nevermore.
Nevermore, will I feel the soft pressure
Of his rosy lips pressed against mine,
Nevermore will his arms warm and tender
My neck with caresses entwine.
You mock when you say God has ta'en him
Away from the sorrows of earth,
What love could shelter and shield him,
Like the love that had given him birth?
Will it heal the mad longing to fold him
Once more to my grief-stricken heart,
To tell me I'll meet him in Heaven
Nevermore from my darling to part?
Your words are well meant, I can feel it,
But the wound is too deep and too fresh,
I cannot deal now with the spirit,
Oh! God give him back in the flesh.
Let me see him again as I saw him,
So winsome, so rosy, so bright,
His baby face dimpled and roguish,
His blue eyes with laughter alight,
Let me feel in my mad desolation,
His heart throbbing close to my own,
Does God pity me in my sorrow?
Does he care for my heartbroken moan?
Had he need of my darling in Heaven
That the life of my life he has ta'en?
Do not try, while my poor heart is breaking
The mystery of death to explain,
Let me sit by myself in the shadow,
Let me kiss as I will the worn shoe;
For I'm chilled by the breath of the angel
That over my hearthstone flew.
Let me weep as I will, and the teardrops
May wash from my dim eyes away
The shadows that hide in their garments,
The light and the glory of day.
Perhaps, as you say, Christ is tender,
And he'll shelter my lamb in his breast,
But your sympathy hurts me, I cannot—
I will not say yet—"It is best."