"Little Feet"

by: Frederick Blankmeyer
October 1875

In castle halls, on cottage homes
Wherever guileless childhood roams
O, there is nothing half so sweet
As busy tread of little feet

The singing breeze, the ocean's roar
The purling rill, the organ's power
All stir the soul, but none so deep
As busy tread of little feet

When we go forth at early morn
To meet the world and brave its scorn
A'down the garden walk so neat
We see the prints of little feet

At eve, when homeward we refrain
With aching limbs and brow of care
The voices ring out clear and sweet
Then comes the rush of little feet

The knives are lost, the dishes stray
The tools are spirited away
And when we go the lost to seek
We take the trail of little feet

But when the angel death has come
And called the flow'rets from our home
Oppressive silence reigns complete
We miss the sound of little feet

Then tools are safe, no dishes stray
No doors go slamming all the day
But O, 'twould give us pleasure sweet
To hear again those noisy feet

Loft night hath come, all are asleep
Yes, all but me - I vigil keep
Hush hush my heart and cease to beat
Was that the step of little feet?

Yes, mother 'tis the softened tread
Of him you missed and mourn as dead
And often in your sweetest sleep
You'll dream of hearing little feet

And when this pilgrimage is o'er
And you approach that blissful shore
The first to run your soul to greet
Will be your darling's little feet.