Here she walked and romped about, And here beneath this apple tree Where all the grass is trampled out The swing she loved so used to be. This path is but a path to you, Because my child you never knew. 'Twas here she used to stoop to smell The first bright daffodil of spring; 'Twas here she often tripped and fell And here she heard the robins sing. You'd call this but a common place, But you have never seen her face. And it was here we used to meet. How beautiful a spot is this, To which she gayly raced to greet Her daddy with his evening kiss! You see here nothing grand or fine, But, Oh, what memories are mine! The people pass from day to day And never turn their heads to see The many charms along the way That mean so very much to me. For all things here are speaking of The babe that once was mine to love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...DEATH'S VALLEY by WALT WHITMAN EFFICIENCY by FRANKLIN PIERCE ADAMS DISCIPLINE by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH TO A REPUBLICAN FRIEND, 1848, CONTINUED by MATTHEW ARNOLD IN VINCULIS; SONNETS WRITTEN IN AN IRISH PRISON: LIBERTY, EQUALITY ... by WILFRID SCAWEN BLUNT HUGH STUART BOYD: HIS DEATH, 1848 by ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING MEDITATIONS FOR EVERY DAY IN PASSION WEEK: SATURDAY by JOHN BYROM EPIGRAM ON THE BRAZIERS' COMPANY HAVING RESOLVED by GEORGE GORDON BYRON |