by James Whitcomb Riley
Let me come in where you sit weeping-aye,
Let me, who have not any child to die,
Weep with you for the little one whose love
I have known nothing of.
The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed
Then- pressure round your neck-the hands you vised
To kiss-such arms-such hands-I never knew,
May I not weep with you?
Fain would I be of service-say something
Between the tears, that would be comforting,
But Oh! so sadder than yourself am I,
Who have not any child to die!
Last updated January 14, 2019