A little shirt so tiny that the sleeves
Would always seem to, laughing, whisper low,
“We were the first you made: we did not grow
In length nor breadth; and when the baby grew
We were laid by to serve a baby new.”
That little shirt! The tiny hem-stitched front
Covered the little heart whose fluttering beat
Was like a captive bird; nor did I know
The years would come, years sorrowful and sweet,
When I, in pain, my weary head would rest