Patter, patter, little feet, <br />Making music quaint and sweet, <br />Up the passage, down the stair; <br />Patter, patter everywhere. <br /> <br />Ripple, ripple, little voice; <br />When I hear you, I rejoice. <br />When you cease to crow and coo, <br />Then my heart grows silent too. <br /> <br />Frolic, frolic, little form, <br />While the day is young and warm. <br />When the shadows shun the west, <br />Climb up to my knee, and rest. <br /> <br />Slumber, slumber, little head, <br />Gambols o'er and night-prayers said. <br />I will give you in your cot <br />Kisses that awake you not. <br /> <br />Open, open, little lids! <br />Lambs are frisking in the meads; <br />Blackcaps flit from stem to stem; <br />Come and chirp along with them. <br /> <br />Change not, change not, little fay; <br />Still be as you are to-day. <br />What a loss is growth of sense, <br />With decrease of innocence! <br /> <br />Something in your little ways <br />Wins me more than love or praise. <br />You have gone, and I feel still <br />Void I somehow cannot fill. <br /> <br />Yes, you leave, when you depart, <br />Empty cradle in my heart, <br />Where I sit and rock my pain, <br />Singing lullaby in vain. <br /> <br />Come back, come back, little feet! <br />Bring again the music sweet <br />To the garden, to the stair; <br />Patter, chatter everywhere.<br /><br />Alfred Austin<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/to-beatrice-stuart-wortley-tat/
