My little one begins his feet to try, A tottering, feeble, inconsistent way; Pleased with the effort, he forgets his play, And leaves his infant baubles where they lie. Laughing and proud his mother flutters nigh, Turning to go, yet joy-compelled to stay, And, bird-like, singing what her heart would say; But not so certain of my bliss am I. For I bethink me of the days in store Wherein those feet must traverse realms unknown, And half forget the pathway to our door. And I recall that in the seasons flown We were his all—as he was all our own— But never can be quite so any more.
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