The poem
I bought my little grandchild Ann A bright balloon, And I was such a happy man To hear her croon. She laughed and babbled with delight, So gold its glow, As by a thread she held it tight, Then--let it go.
As if it gloried to be free It climbed the sky; But oh how sorrowful was she, And sad was I! And when at eve with sobbing cry She saw the moon, She pleaded to the pensive sky For her balloon.
O Little One, I pray that you In years to be, Will hold a tiny baby too, And know its glee; That yours will always be the thrill And joy of June, And that you never, never will Cry for the moon.