My Little Daughter’s Shoes
                By Charles James Sprague.

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 to 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 shall lead my tottering age
     In cheerful peace along!

 The Boston Book, Volume 4, 1850