Our Little Girl

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Her heart knew naught of sorrow,
  Nor the vaguest taint of sin--
'Twas an ever-blooming blossom
  Of the purity within:
And her hands knew only touches
  Of the mother's gentle care,
And the kisses and caresses
  Through the interludes of prayer.

Her baby-feet had journeyed
  Such a little distance here,
They could have found no briers
  In the path to interfere;
The little cross she carried
  Could not weary her, we know,
For it lay as lightly on her
  As a shadow on the snow.

And yet the way before us--
  O how empty now and drear!--
How ev'n the dews of roses
  Seem as dripping tears for her!
And the song-birds all seem crying,
  As the winds cry and the rain,
All sobbingly,--"We want--we want
  Our little girl again!"

© James Whitcomb Riley