I love my little gowns;
I love my little shoes,
All standing still below them,
Set quietly by twos.
All day I wear them careless,
But when I put them by
They look so dear and different,
And yet I don’t know why.
My oldest one of all,—
Worn out; and then the best;
But that I have not worn enough
To love it, like the rest.
The dimity for Sunday,
The blue one and the wool,
Now that I see them hanging up,
Are somehow beautiful.
Of all the white, with ribbons
Gray-green, if I could choose;
The fichu that helps everything
Be gay; and then, my shoes.
My shoes that skip and saunter,
And one that will untie:—
They look so funny and so young,
I hate to put them by.
I wonder,—if some day ...
All this will be the Past?—
Poor Hop-the-brook and Dance-with-me,
They cannot always last!