Those toes, but stubs of pinkish tone,
poke out of the blanket’s grasp,
and though wanting for a warmer home,
are too beautiful to wrap.
And fairer hair I have not seen,
than the threads that grace my child;
what once was parted, tied and bowed,
now rests both free and wild.
Gazing on those sleepy eyes,
the smiling cheeks, pursed lips, pinched nose,
I trace the lines and memorize
Dear Kate before she grows.
