There is no music quite so sweet <br />As patter of a baby's feet. <br />Who never hears along the hall <br />The sound of tiny feet that fall <br />Upon the floor so soft and low <br />As eagerly they come or go, <br />Has missed, no matter who he be, <br />Life's most inspiring symphony. <br />There is a music of the spheres <br />Too fine to ring in mortal ears, <br />Yet not more delicate and sweet <br />Than pattering of baby feet; <br />Where'er I hear that pit-a-pat <br />Which falls upon the velvet mat, <br />Out of my dreamy nap I start <br />And hear the echo in my heart. <br />'Tis difficult to put in words <br />The music of the summer birds, <br />Yet far more difficult a thing— <br />A lyric for that pattering; <br />Here is a music telling me <br />Of golden joys that are to be; <br />Unheralded by horns and drums, <br />To me a regal caller comes, <br />Now on my couch I lie and hear <br />A little toddler coming near, <br />Coming right boldly to my place <br />To pull my hair and pat my face, <br />Undaunted by my age or size, <br />Nor caring that I am not wise— <br />A visitor devoid of sham <br />Who loves me just for what I am. <br />This soft low music tells to me <br />In just a minute I shall be <br />Made captive by a thousand charms, <br />Held fast by chubby little arms, <br />For there is one upon the way <br />Who thinks the world was made for play. <br />Oh, where's the sound that's half so sweet <br />As pattering of baby feet?<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/little-feet-5/
