A baby’s hand was on my face,
Its warm breath on my cheek, and then
I felt the baby’s warm embrace.
It was my baby, long since dead,
Her dreamy eyes were good to see;
Its baby tongue moved, and it said:
“Oh, isn’t it sweet to dream of me!
Oh, papa dear, your cheeks are wet,
Just like the flowers are wet with dew,
But soon you’ll wake, and you’ll forget