The Dead Child'S Playthings

Marie comes no more at call. She has wandered from her play. Ah, how pitifully small Was the coffin borne away!

See--about the nursery floor All her little heritage: Rubber ball and battledore, Tattered book and coloured page.

Poor forsaken doll! in vain Stretch your arms. She will not come. Stopped forever is the train, And the music-box is dumb.

Some one touched it soft, apart, Where the silence is her name. And what sinking of the heart At the plaintive note that came!

Ah, the anguish! when the tomb Robs the cradle; when bereft We discover in the gloom Child toys that an angel left.