A Child's Treasures.
Thou art home at last, my darling one,
Flushed and tired with thy play,
From morning dawn until setting sun
Hast thou been at sport away;
And thy steps are weary - hot thy brow,
Yet thine eyes with joy are bright, -
Ah! I read the riddle, show me now
The treasures thou graspest tight.
A pretty pebble, a tiny shell,
A feather by wild bird cast,
Gay flowers gathered in forest dell,
Already withering fast,
Four speckled eggs in a soft brown nest,
Thy last and thy greatest prize,
Such the things that fill with joy thy breast,
With laughing light thine eyes.
Ah! my child, what right have I to smile
And whisper, too dearly bought,
By wand'ring many a weary mile -
Dust, heat, and toilsome thought?