On the homely trinkets—you’ll call them so,—
That her baby loved, then with one more kiss
On the little hair trunk, she turned to go.
Now on the lid is the dust of years,—
I wonder what think all the toys within!
Do they wish for the baby voice, still so long,
To arouse them once more with its boyish din?
In the attic I happened to be one day,
I couldn’t help taking a tiny peep,—
They were just as he left them, every one,—