The poem
Give me your hand, oh little one! Like children be we two; Yet I am old, my day is done That barely breaks for you. A baby-basket hard you hold, With in it cherries four: You cherish them as men do gold, And count them o'er.
And then you stumble in your walk; The cherries scattered lie. You pick them up with foolish talk And foolish glad am I, When you wipe one quite clean of dust And give it unto me; So in the baby-basket just Are three.
All this is simple, I confess, A moment piled with peace; Yet loving men have died for less, And will till time shall cease. . . . A silken hand in crinkled one-- O Little Innocence! O blessed moment in the son E'er I go hence!