"When our babe he goeth walking in his garden
Around his tinkling feet the sunbeams play;
The posies they are good to him
And bow them as they should to him,
As he fareth upon his kingly way:
The birdlings of the wood to him
Make music, gentle music, all the day
When our babe he goeth walking in his garden."
–Eugene Field
No comments:
Post a Comment